


A First for Everything

by parchment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchment/pseuds/parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Sherlock's and John's firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely sherlock-holmes-irregular, who kindly accepted my tardiness.
> 
> I tried to write fluff and it came out angst: an autobiography
> 
> p.s. uses the Reichenbach Fall as a cutoff.

_15 June 2012 22:54_

John walked into the flat, and echoes enveloped him - not his footsteps, or his laboured breathing, or even the clunk of the gigantic umbrella John was using as a cane since he’d nearly collapsed right inside the door - no, the echoes of Sherlock everywhere. Everything reminded John of him. The flat even smelled of Sherlock. The scent that wasn’t cologne, because it compromised his ability to catch scents at crime scenes, but sweat and violin rosin and acrid chemicals and crisp soap and a little bit of John.

But he couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not when his hands were steady because they couldn’t shake and his eyes were dry because he couldn’t cry.

No, if he thought about Sherlock it would all crumble, and he wasn’t sure he could rebuild himself this time.

Not when there was no army looking for enlistments after his sister came home completely pissed for the hundredth time, offering a place where he could actually help people. Not when there wasn’t a slightly dangerous consulting detective to make him run around London, to make him forget to limp and cry at night and go to his therapist. Especially not when there wasn’t one thing he could do to distract himself. Because he didn’t want to be distracted. He wanted to always remember, to feel the slow burn of each shadow of a smile and each whisper of a laugh.

So this time? There was nothing.

Nothing except the echoes, the drowning echoes. The sort of noise and feeling that took up all the space for sound and stole some of the air meant for breathing; the sort that left John gasping and clutching at the doorframe. He stumbled and wobbled his way toward his chair, purposefully keeping his eyes away from Sherlock’s. The dark red fabric enveloped his body like a hug, and he shut his eyes right before they landed directly in front of him, shut them against the echoes. Always the echoes.

The coat rack, where Sherlock would fling his coat - that ridiculous thing he’d wear even in the summer - letting out a quiet groan to be home, or an exhilarated laugh if he’d finished a case, the sort that’d have him up for days, or sometimes remaining silent, deep in thought so soon after he’d been by the Yard. Or even that one time that Sherlock had come in bursting out in bevy of colourful languages that week after he’d had a questionable case with a Turkish crime syndicate in March. The shocked expression when John had answered back, the last day. Sherlock insisted that he’d known John was fluent. John knew he didn’t.

The scratches on the wall of the stairs from the Americans, the glint in Sherlock’s eye as he kept a sharp watch on them, the way it had melted into a soft concerned glow as his gaze swept to Mrs Hudson. The way they’d joked about it later, out of Lestrade’s earshot, until John had tears streaming down his face and Sherlock had to support his weight.

The chemicals he could smell from the doorway, sharp and stinging his eyes. Another experiment, like the last one, where he’d finally said enough, where he’d had a massive row with Sherlock, only to give in, to come back from work, to come home to a pristine kitchen and a detective napping in his bed. He’d looked like a child, and John had felt his heart give an odd sort of tug, moving him forward until he’d stood over Sherlock. Jumping into action after a couple minutes of staring that made him flush softly, he covered Sherlock’s prone form with his own blanket.

Sherlock’s favourite blanket thrown haphazardly across the couch, halfway onto the floor, the one with tiny beige polka dots and a tea stain in the top left corner.

John’s eyes took it all in, the details he’d normally ignore or take for granted. Now they were precious, perfect, to be kept exactly as they were. He’d never tidy up again, just to hear Sherlock grumble about it for days, because there was no Sherlock to complain. The last remnants of warmth seeped from his body. The doctor part of him told him calmly that it was all in his head, but the part that could still remember that Sherlock preferred the fried rice and hated eggrolls drowned it out, pushing memories that quickly shattered into more vivid recollections of the phone call. Suddenly he was overcome by a desperate need to see it, see it all. Every scratch, mark, memory.

His eyes flashed open, and the sunny red of his lids gave way to the dully-lit blue-tinged flat, dust hovering slightly in the air, like it always did right before Mrs Hudson gave in and did the cleaning. He skimmed his hands over the chair’s arms, letting the slightly rough fabric bring him back to the land of the living, taking in everything, but just seeing Sherlock.

John tried; he really did, to lead his reluctant eyes to the chair. _His_ chair. A stupid thing to get touchy over, he knew, but he couldn’t get the familiar image out of his head, Sherlock propping his head on his fingertips, hands like a prayer, eyes like a storm, feet spread slightly as he leant forward to spout off his latest break in a case. So it took all of John’s courage to do it.

But he did.

He was a soldier today, not a doctor.

So he eyes skidded over the chair, over the flash of black. There. That would be enough for right now.

But something had interrupted his brief glance.

White.

Something white.

John looked back, apprehension gone in the face of something else to think about.

Paper, his mind whispered, processing the picture in front of him numbly. A letter.

A sudden rage sifted through the grief, warming him from his centre outwards. If Sherlock thought he could leave a bloody letter and just expect him to read it and cry over it and maybe laugh just one more time then he was fucking mistaken because there was no way John was going to even _touch_ -

It was in his hands before he could blink.

His fingers were perfectly steady as he unfolded the paper.

_John._

_I have less than no time to write this, which I suppose is good because I’m awful with words, anyway, as you know. I have an appointment to get to. You won’t like it. I just needed to say goodbye. This is the first time I’ve said goodbye, do you know that? I am always the one left behind. And since I know how it feels, I am sorry. I will call you, and you will answer, and I’ll tell you everything. I am sorry, John. But I could write it a million times and still not express all of my regret, so I’ll stop now._

_I am not a sentimental man. You know that, too. But I do love you, and I find myself hating everything I have done to lead up to this. Not because I’m dead, although I know you’d like that to be my reason, but because of you. It’s always because of you, John. Because whatever people say, I do care about you more than is probably wise._

_I want you to know that you were my first for a lot of things, John. A first love, a first everything, a first John. Or maybe just want to say that I wish I could be your lasts like you were mine. I don’t know. I would elaborate, but I am finding myself short of time and I must go, and I’d thank you for it, for everything, but I know you’d scoff. There are many things I would do, given the chance._

_I would tell you to move on, but I know you won’t, and I don’t want you to, not really. Goodbye, and good luck, and believe me to be, my dear friend,_

_very sincerely yours._

_Sherlock Holmes_


	2. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning. I hope you like it.

_29 January 2011_

Sherlock Holmes woke up to an empty flat, and smiled. Silence, his favourite sound. He’d just finished a case with a deliciously disgusting criminal last night, and had immediately collapsed into a deep sleep. He cast a cursory glance at the clock that he’d thrown into the most convenient place, on top of a stack of books on footprint analysis, and saw that it was 7:42. Good. He’d gotten the better part of four hours of sleep. He should be good until at least Friday.

Sherlock threw his least favourite suit on so nothing important could be tarnished, and went downstairs to start on his experiment from a few weeks ago. No perishables, so it should have held.

His foot had hardly left the last step when Mrs Hudson came into the sitting room. Her walk was brisk, and her short sensible heels thumped angrily on the stairs up to his flat. Someone had knocked on the door asking for him, then. She hated it. Felt like a bloody butler, she said.

“Sher-”

“Yes, who is it?”

She stopped, shooting him a look that would have done his mother proud for cutting her off. “Good morning to you, too, dear.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped up to her quickly, kissing her cheek.

“Good morning, Mrs Hudson,” he recited dully.

She smiled, and it was almost worth it. “It’s one of those nice street boys you pay. Said there’s a murder by Dorset Square that looks suspicious. Like something you’d be interested in.”

He grinned, then quickly restrained his excitement into a superior smirk and irritated air. “Alright, I was planning on going to Scotland Yard today, anyway. Shouldn’t be too much trouble to go now.” He hadn’t been there in a while.

Mrs Hudson smiled at him fondly, and he tried to ignore it. “Of course, dear. You’ll be skipping your morning tea, then?”

He looked back at her from the doorway, already halfway out in his rush. “Take mine down to Mrs Turner. She’s been having some trouble with her son, anyway. Needs company.” And when she laughed and called him nice, he resolutely disregarded it.

* * *

_8:21_

Sherlock walked through the doors of Scotland Yard and was promptly greeted by a manic rush of activity. People running everywhere, orders being shouted across rooms, phone ringing practically off the hooks.

Ah. A press conference, then.

He walked slowly toward the bulletin board that functioned as a news centre for the officers, and scoured it quickly. There it was. The list of the mobile phone numbers of all the press attending. He ripped it off, and crumpled it into his pocket, hiding it from Lestrade like he always did. The poor secretary that made it every time probably had no idea the only use it was put to was for him to annoy the DI. Sherlock wound his way through the mess to Lestrade’s office, and propped himself on the edge of his desk. He took out his mobile, sent out exactly three mass texts, another straight to Lestrade, and waited.

* * *

The door slammed open, and Sherlock glanced lazily at the clock on the wall.

“Eight thirty eight, inspector. You’re getting sloppy.”

“Sherlock, you’ve got to stop-”

“I will, Lestrade, the moment it stops being necessary.”

“It hasn’t been necessary in the first place!” Lestrade was losing his temper already. Must not have gone well.

Donovan poked her head into the room.

“Hey. Freak. There was a body found near Dorset Square this morning. Why don’t you go poke at it and stop bothering us?”

“I know, Donovan. Now stop boring me with ordinary murders and tell me about the suicides.”

“No. How do you know about it, anyway? It was just called in,” Sally replied, making her way into the room entirely.

Sherlock sent her a look of pure derision. “Oh, really, Sally, I thought we were past this. Do you really think I would be idiotic enough to come around here if I was murde-”

“Enough!” Lestrade broke in.

“Yes, I think it is,” Sherlock answered, giving Donovan a measured look.

She nodded infinitesimally. The argument was over for now.

Lestrade sighed, and grinned slightly at Sherlock.

“You’re awake.”

Sherlock nodded. “Sound observation, Lestrade.”

Lestrade chose to leave it at that. “The suicides, I, er, can’t tell you anything yet. Not until I can prove they’re not suicides. So. I’ll get you when I need you.”

Sherlock stood up straight, and went to the doorway, standing over Donovan until she backed away begrudgingly. “You know where to find me.”

“In the madhouse?” Anderson shot in from his desk at the other end of the room.

“Shut up, Anderson.” Sherlock said, only to experience a voice overlaying his own. Not Lestrade’s voice; it was much higher than his. Surely not-

Donovan made eye contact and held it, almost rebelliously.

Lestrade cleared his throat and walked in between the two to get out of his office.

“Yeah, I know where to find you, Sherlock, and I’ll get you if I need you.” He gestured to the doors that led out. “And get some food on the way home, Sherlock, it’s been two days don’t try to convince me otherwise,” he added under his breath as Sherlock passed him.

Sherlock left that unanswered as he walked away.

Sally turned to Anderson. “You know he can’t help it half the time; he’s just weird. Don’t be such an arse.”

He hunched his shoulders against the slight sting of that, and suddenly remembered why he hadn’t been there in a while.

* * *

_9:09_

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and looked up at the building. The crisp air seared his lungs and he grinned.

Bart’s. Home.

He entered the building, and made his way to the lift in the familiar way that most people went to make tea. The cool metal soothed his flushed cheeks as he leaned against the wall while the doors closed. They’d just as soon slid shut when they were opening again, and Sherlock jerked upright, certain that whoever it was would take the stairs once they saw he was in it.

Mike Stamford stood in the opening, and did what very few people would dare to do. He smiled at Sherlock, and entered the small space.

“So, how’s your morning been? Just got here myself, couldn’t leave home without a cuppa…”

As he continued, Sherlock’s mind began to whir. Sherlock knew Mike, knew everything about him, within three seconds of him grinning and introducing himself.

His coat collar was worn, washed over and over, either a favourite or from financial difficulty, given the job, obvious from scalpel nicks and latex remnants on his fingers, a favourite. Comfortable man, then. He was wearing a nicer shirt thought, crisp and clean, no distinguishable stains, so he’s dressing up for something. Nothing to do with work, otherwise he’d be in his lab coat, so he’s going out today. Lunch most likely, and given his good mood, with friends. Most likely happens two, no, three times a week. The grin, the always-at-ease posture of the man, even around Sherlock, gave way to a friendly personality. Overweight, from eating one to many of his wife’s undoubtedly ‘delicious’ biscuits. So nice, content, old but clean ring on his finger, shining on the inside as well as out from taking it off to put on gloves, lead to lab instructor at Bart’s, their current location, with a wife, and multiple friends.

Deductions were easy, like breathing.

What was not easy was conversation. Boring, dull, insipid. But he knew the man sometimes filled in for Molly in the morgue on her sick days, so he had to tolerate it. Sherlock shook himself mentally and forced focus on Mike’s monologue, catching the tail end of it.

“…but my daughter, she just moved in with her boyfriend, and m’wife’s not happy, but I say a flatshare is so much more affordable, and why not? I’m open-minded. What about yourself? Single? Have a flatshare yourself?”

Ah, a daughter. He always missed something. But the silence stretched on, and he became aware that he was expected to answer.

“Er, yes. Single. Yes.” He had to do better. He forced a smile. “No flatshare, but I’ve been looking for a flatmate.” A perfect opportunity, really. “Do you know anyone, actually? They’d have to be pretty desperate. I mean, no one would want me for a flatmate.” He laughed to cover up the serious note of the statement.

“No, sorry,” Stamford smiled apologetically.

“It’s fine.” The lift dinged to signify they’d finally gotten to Mike’s stop. Second floor.

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out, alright? Let you know if I find anyone.” Mike stepped out.

Ms Port stood waiting, and her eyebrows rose more than Sherlock thought humanly possible at the light-hearted way Mike was treating him. He glared at her until she started to walk toward the stairs, and the doors closed once more.

* * *

He stepped out into the morgue, and went to find a cadaver or Molly, whichever came first. Preferably Molly, since he didn’t want her angry if he ignored procedure, but time was always of the essence.

“Ah. Molly.” He greeted perfunctorily as she walked out of her office.

“Oh! Sherlock!” she jumped, covering her heart and smiling shyly. “I’m not that used to things talking down here.”

He smiled briefly at her attempt at a joke. “I need a cadaver. Anything you don’t need anymore?”

She smiled back, a little too much. “Actually, yes.”

* * *

He finished placing sufficient bruises on the corpse and notified Molly of the information he’d need. Molly, eloquent as usual, asked him out, and he tried his best to act as though he’d misunderstood.

He made a quick escape to the main lab, knowing she’d be able to find him, and set to check if he could see the difference between vinegar and water with his naked eye, depending on the lighting. The clock read 10:12. He needed to be back at his apartment in less than three hours. Lestrade will have broken down by then.

At exactly eleven fifty eight and thirteen seconds, Mike came in, with a short blond [army doctor, injured, psychosomatic limp, brother-] man. When it became obvious why he was there, Sherlock glanced at the clock surreptitiously, surprised at the speed of which Mike had managed to find someone.

The man was blond, short, but not weak, solid. The tan and haircut pointed to the army, and his stance pointed to courage. His comment solidified Sherlock’s theory of a doctor, and the phone made him pity the man. His slightly lopsided grin made Sherlock’s stomach flutter embarrassingly, but Sherlock quickly dismissed that. But the offer of his phone made Sherlock do a double take. People did not just offer to help him. All in all, he was perfect for a flatmate. Likely to be quiet, keep to himself, helpful, take up little room.

He looked like the sort of man who was broken, and Sherlock had always liked to take things apart and rebuild them.

Sherlock didn't even give him a chance to say no.

* * *

The man, John, sparked something in the back of Sherlock's mind, but he decided not to read into it, and when the army doctor said, “We don’t know a thing about each other,” Sherlock grinned inwardly and proceeded to prove just how very wrong he was.


	3. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought the angst was over you were wrong.

_9 July 2011 15:56_

“Not that one,” Sherlock moaned, and covered his face with the blanket again, his favourite, the one with beige polka dots. “I don’t want this glass. I want _mine_. The other one. It’s dark blue; you can’t miss it.”

“Sherlock, just because you’re sick, doesn’t mean you can order me around like a bloody maid, you know,” John replied testily, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. From what Sherlock could hear, however, no liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup, and he admired John’s ever-present self-control.

“I’m not sick. This is just a cough. Hardly anything-” Sherlock was cut off by a choking noise he realised was coming from his mouth.

“-to worry about,” he finished, voice winding between hoarse and even deeper than usual, and a barely-there whisper.

“Oh god you sound like a dying walrus,” John said, looking down at Sherlock with an expression akin to awe.

“Shut up, John,” he whispered, the bite of it taken out a bit by his hand snaking out to grasp the too-hot cup in his hand. It left an almost-scalding sensation on his fingertips, but he decided to risk it and sip some, anyway. His tongue leapt back from the invasion of the definitely too warm drink, and he coughed again.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” John answered sarcastically.

He took the mug from Sherlock’s hand and headed back toward the kitchen. “I told you it was too hot, you know,” he said, raising his voice slightly so it could make its way through the room back toward Sherlock.

“I told you it was too hot,” Sherlock mimicked under his breath. Then he paused, horrified at himself and glad that John was in the kitchen where he couldn’t hea-

“I heard that,” John called back to him.

Never mind.

Sherlock didn’t answer, just burrowed deeper into the couch, wishing he had stayed in his bed this morning. But this morning he hadn’t felt that bad, and now it was just a hazy memory. He let his mind wander for a while, feeling himself drifting off into a doze, and, just this once, giving into it, when he heard a noise.

John.

Right. John.

John was yelling.

No, John was calling him.

John. Focus.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice, softer now. “Sherlock are you awake?” His voice crept more towards a whisper now.

Sherlock tried to say yes, of course he was awake, but all that came out was a quiet moan.

“Can’t find your cup,” John said, tone nicer than Sherlock thought appropriate because he was fine, really, just needed to sleep for a bi- no. _Focus_. His cup. Top shelf, left corner.

“To’ shell. Lef’ corner,” Sherlock mumbled, opening one eye at John in a weak attempt to stay awake.

John nodded like that made complete sense, and walked back to the kitchen.

Sherlock let his eye drift shut again, and felt darkness close in.

He’d forgotten to tell John thank you. Oh, well.

* * *

_16:08_

Sherlock was awoken by a crash. His eyes flashed open, and shut again abruptly. The view of the room was spinning slightly, and he felt like his throat was trying to make him into a raisin from the inside out.

“John?” he called, satisfied by the way his voice made his chest vibrate, stronger than it had been before.

One, two, three. No answer.

“John?” He could’ve gone out. Sherlock eyes opened and scanned the spots he knows John would leave a note telling him where he’d gone. Nothing.

“John?” Silence.

Sherlock stood up, dragging the blanket with him as he went. “John?”

He was rewarded with a groan, coming from the kitchen. He walked towards the noise carefully.

John was lying on the floor, in a pool of slowly growing blood. Almost a half pint by Sherlock’s estimate. The corner of the counter was bloody, and there was a step stool by the stove. The dark blue glass in John’s hand only reaffirmed Sherlock’s assumptions.

He took in the scene quickly and ran over to John, blanket dropping quickly, the corner landing in some tea that had spilt from the kettle when John had scrabbled for purchase on the stove, most likely sustaining burns on his hands. Sherlock knelt beside him, not touching his head, but trying to observe how much damage the hit had caused. His arm reached on the counter for the mobile he’d observed on the way in, John’s phone. His fingers automatically dialled 999.

It had been stupid of John to try that, without someone around to make sure he didn’t fall, but Sherlock couldn’t tell him that until John would wake _up_.

“G’ yuh cup,” John mumbled, and tried and failed to raise the glass for Sherlock’s inspection.

“Yes, you did. Thank you, John. Now shut up,” Sherlock whispered, taking the glass. He looked down at the man that was almost completely unconscious and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in for the medics to come quickly.

* * *

_10 July 2011 2:35_

Sherlock’s mind ran through facts. John. Always to do with John. So many little titbits he’d gathered, whirring and rushing and threatening to make his head explode. If he couldn’t speak them aloud, it felt like he would pass out. A quick glance into the corridor revealed just night staff at the hospital, almost completely empty. But not entirely, so Sherlock turned back to the room, letting his mouth open into a space full of nothing and the heavy presence of something serious.

“It’s been exactly five months, one week, and two- no, three days since you’ve moved into our flat.”

Sherlock’s eyes left the clock on the wall and wandered to the bed as he stood in the doorway.

“You have made me tea approximately six hundred and four times. I have never thanked you.”

He walked passed the threshold, and his body stiffened involuntarily.

“You called your sister on the anniversary of your return from Afghanistan. She cried and you visited her. You bought her some paint. I think she used to be an artist.”

The toes of his shoes bumped against the edge of the bed, telling him that he’d reached it, since his eyes couldn’t because they were still trained on the prone figure lying in it. He walked around it carefully, with measured steps.

“You laugh at horrible jokes, which makes me laugh. I’ve no idea why.”

He stood directly beside the bed, gazing down at the completely lax face of his best friend.

“You’re brave.” His voice broke.

“You’re kind.” He leant forward.

“You’re incredible.” He made eye contact with closed lids.

“You’re scaring me.” A tear fell on the other man’s cheek.

“Wake up, John,” he whispered, and let his lips softly brush John's.

* * *

_13 July 2011 9:53_

Sherlock hadn’t slept in three days. His longest stretch yet, adding in the two previous days when he couldn’t sleep because of his cough. He looked around the room slowly, vision blurry, and his head thumped against the sheets of John’s bed. He coughed when caught a whiff of disinfectant, and then his world faded to black.

* * *

_9:56_

John’s eyes opened to an unfamiliar room. His eyes automatically snapped to the wall, taking in the time. Late for work.

Sarah would be upset.

Then it all came back, in a rush that made his head pound. Sherlock’s bloody cup. The step stool. Oh, he was going to _murder_ Sherlock. He tried to lift his head, tried to look around the room, but a headache was pounding itself into his skull. He didn’t know what hospital he was in, he didn’t even know what day it was.

He tried to sit up, but was overcome by a sudden exhaustion, ironic since he’d spent the last who knows how long lying down. John’s eyes traced the patterns on the ceiling while he slowly took inventory of his body. He felt a warm weight on his leg, but nothing seemed to be injured save his head, but it hurt like nothing else, and John wished he could trade it for two broken legs and a black eye. This was all Sherlock’s fault. He let out a soft curse, and wondered if he’d lost his job by now. Bloody Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Wait. Where was Sherlock?

“Sherlock?” John wasn’t even going to try to call the noise that came out of his mouth a voice. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Sherlock?”

He felt the weight on his leg move.

“John?” a sleep-addled voice answered his own. Sherlock sat up, and John was able to see his face by keeping his eyes trained as far down as possible.

“Sherlock. Figures you’d be asleep. People aren’t supposed to be able to sleep when people they care about are in the hospital. Especially when it’s _their fault_.”

John knew he was being vindictive, but it was mainly because he felt so bloody stupid for ending up in the stupid hospital over a stupid blue glass. He saw Sherlock stiffen and look at the floor, finally observed the prominent bags under his eyes, and nervously shaking hands. John felt all the frustration leak out of him.

He smiled at Sherlock gently. “You know,” he began reflectively. “I always thought the first time I’d end up in the hospital because of you, it’d be because some psychopath serial killer got lucky and I got careless. But of course not. It would be because you were sick and you needed a bloody cup.” He let out a loose laugh, and ignored the way it made his head ache.

“Yes, well, statistically speaking it’s 58% more likely that home accidents are the cause for hospital visits, even allowing for the variables of living with m-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John sighed. “It was a joke, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Of course.”

“So,” John began again, once he was sure that Sherlock realised he wasn’t angry. “What d’you think the chances are of me having gotten sacked?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted. On anyone else, John would’ve said he looked uncomfortable.

“Erhm, yes. About that.” John felt trepidation wash over him. It would be hell to find another job. He levelled a glare at his flatmate, and Sherlock apparently found something to deduce about his shoes. “I spoke to Sarah earlier and she said it was fine if you took leave off as long as someone notified her and I just had, so- Yes.”

John raised his eyebrows in shock and felt the last bits of dried blood crack and hopefully fall off his forehead. “That was, er, nice. Yeah, thank you, Sherlock.”

He closed his eyes as the list of things he was behind on now came flooding back in.

“And the rent?”

“Paid yesterday.”

“That’s a day early.”

“Sound observation, yes.”

“And I’ve got to get that evidence back to Le-”

“Yes, I’ve done that.”

“And I’ve-”

“Finished.”

“Oh, and-”

“John.” Sherlock now stood directly over him, leaning over so it was almost like they were standing next to each other. “I am considered a genius by many standards. I think I can handle some household responsibilities.”

“Didn’t stop you from ignoring them before,” John grumbled.

“I said I _can_ , John. Not that I choose to.”

John chose to let that go. It was too soon to start arguing again. “Well, you look like you’ve been to hell and back,” John grinned up at Sherlock. “How did you ever manage without me?”

“I didn’t.” John held Sherlock’s eye contact, but felt a blush creep up his neck into an area dangerously close to his cheeks. He looked away, and Sherlock’s answering smile vanished. He backed up quickly, finding interest in everything but John. “You need to rest, John. I’ll call the nurse.”

As Sherlock walked out the door, John knew he wouldn’t come back, but for now, John thought it was alright.

There was something niggling in the back of his head that he’d rather focus on. Some memory he’d forgotten. It would bother him for days if he couldn’t remember, and it was _just_ out of reach. He reached his hand up to worry his chapped lips, and struggled to latch onto the idea.

God, it was killing him. And now he had an itch at the back of his throat. If Sherlock somehow made him sick, then he was going to-

John coughed.


	4. Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of an experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fluff I'd tried for at the beginning. Sort of. This is also longer than I intended it to be.

_23 August 2011 6:13_

“This is the third one.”

Yes, third murder, obviously, Sherlock thought.

“In _two days_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock squinted and tilted his head. “No. It’s been three weeks, one every Monday. It was in the file summary. I know we just got it this morning, but, really, I told you-”

“I’m not talking about the bloody murders!”

What could he possibly be talking about, then? The murders, the case, the only thing of import at the moment. He couldn’t care less about the rest of it all. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to rein in his frustration.

“What then?”

He should be focussing on the killer, find him as quickly as possible. Well, it was statistically likely to be a him. Balance of probability. He looked back at the crime scene photos. It was something about the carpet, he knew it.

“Your experiments. Three of them, now. And they’re all over the place. I woke up this morning with hair-”

“Yes, I should think so.” Sherlock broke in, eyes remaining firmly on the pictures he could see the carpet in. Four, all of the shots incomplete. The room was small, about five by six metres, so maybe if he positioned the two best side by side, and used the others to fill in-

“No, Sherlock. Shut up, okay? Just shut up right now. I had hair _all over my sheets_. I was _covered_ in it. I told you! Do whatever you like out here, but that’s _my_ room. D’you know how long it took me to get out of bed? Because I didn’t want to _disturb your stupid experiment_?”

There. Now he just needed about a half a square metre in the southwest corner of the room, but it probably wasn’t needed. The rectangular area approximately one metre from the right of the direct centre was important. The carpet was two different shades, one lighter than the other, so something was moved recently, allowing the cleaner carpet underneath to be exposed. So. Something had been moved. A dresser would make the most sense, by the size of the area. Why? Why move a dresser? “Hardly necessary, John. I finished that last night. At about three. You could’ve-”

“That’s not the point! You always miss the point. Listen,” John took a breath to try to steady himself, like he did before they jumped from the roof of one building to another, or when they were being chased down the street by an insane killer with a gun.

Silence. Except, of course, in Sherlock’s head. The carpet, his mind blared. Something moved from across the carpet. Where was the mysterious dresser? Who could move something so large? Why? Questions snowballed and spiralled inside his skull until the entire mess was cut through abruptly by John’s voice.

“You need to stop. The experiments. They’re getting out of hand and they’re all over the place, and yesterday evening, Mrs Hudson told _me_ that if _you_ had _personal preferences_ that she would prefer for them to remain discreet. Me! Because she insists that we’re- No. You know what? The point is-” Sherlock opened his mouth to cut in, but John ploughed right over him. “ _The point is_ there was _apparently_ a _whip_ and your stupid _riding crop_ in the middle of the stairway.”

“Hardly my fault Mrs Hudson has a mind better suited for …other lines of thinking,” Sherlock murmured quietly, mind still mostly focussed on the pictures. Given the advantageous financial stance of the parents, it’s likely the girl was murdered for money. Maybe the missing furniture contained valuable items? But it was irresponsible to fling out conjecture without suitable proof.

John cut in again, and his tone of voice seemed to warrant at least 26% of his attention. He’d never sounded this upset before.

“Shut up, Sherlock. That’s not even the worst part!” John laughed in a way that conveyed more bitterness and disbelief than amusement. “The worst part is the smell. The smell from that _thing_ you have over there. What the hell do you even have on the counter over there? A liver or something?”

A stomach, actually, Sherlock thought as he rifled through all the catalogued dresser types he’d stored away. But then he paused, because John was approached the desiccation chamber he’d put it in, and they’d agreed no more body parts. John would be upset.

“You know, when we met, I actually thought you were quiet,” Sherlock said as bitingly as he could, trying to distract John. Better angry for a caustic remark than what he’d find in the desiccation chamber. John dismissed it, though, and kept going.

“You probably don’t want to do that,” Sherlock warned as John’s hand gripped the handle determinately, keeping his eyes mostly on the photos, but focussing on his peripherals, to gauge whether John would actually lift the lid.

“Sure I don’t,” John mumbled as he lifted the lid. The acrid stench of mostly dried flesh permeated the kitchen, and Sherlock had to hold a blanch back.

John didn’t even so much as flinch. “Oh god,” he breathed, disbelief apparent; disbelief which quickly turned to righteous anger. He lifted the lid to put it back on the container, making sure it was sealed precisely, and turned back to Sherlock slowly.

“We agreed,” he said, voice calmer than it had any right to be. A shiver of something that was most definitely, completely and totally not fear ran down Sherlock’s spine. “No. More. Body parts.”

“Technically-” Sherlock began weakly, only to be cut off yet again by John simply shaking his head. The movement was sharp, and bore no room for argument.

“Oh, no,” John said, drawing out the ‘oh’ and letting his voice slowly rise. “You can’t nuance your way out of this. You don’t _get_ it, Sherlock. I put up with everything. The violin, the ‘bored!’, the nicotine patches, but why? Why do I bother? You don’t notice. You don’t notice how much sleep I lose or- or how many times I have to double, triple check that the sugar I’m using in my tea is _actually_ sugar. You don’t notice how much I-” John stopped, and just shook his head again, slowly, like it weighed more than it should.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He could argue that John complained about the violin if it went past three in the morning, or that the last time John had threatened to throttle him if he said bored one more time, or that time John walked over and ripped two of the five nicotine patches off his arm, listing dull medicinal reasons for he had to stick with three, tops, from then on.

Instead, what came out was a quiet, “If you really feel that way, then maybe the best possibility would be for you to go.”

An ambiguous ‘go,’ that Sherlock meant as a ‘please, please stay,’ and that John undoubtedly took as a ‘leave and never come back.’ Sherlock wanted to reach out an arm to stop the slow route John was taking toward the doorway of the kitchen.

But he didn’t. He stood in front of a bevy of crime scene photos, with a small part of his mind making his hands itch to align the one on the left just right, as John closed his eyes, visibly shook the argument off, and walked past him. He paused at the door of their flat, and sighed.

“I’ve got to get to the surgery. Should be back by six.”

And then John left.

* * *

_13:32_

Sherlock flung the case folder down onto the coffee table with a disgusted huff. Over seven hours and he still hadn’t even found out what piece of furniture had been moved. What was worse was that now, having seen the same photos from five million and a half different angles, he wasn’t even sure it was a dresser anymore.

He couldn’t concentrate. It was too quiet. Sherlock looked down at his arm, and counted the nicotine patched quickly. Yes, three. Three. Why had he agreed on three? Stupid number. Too common. Now six? Perfect. The double of three, so people rarely chose it, thinking it much too even. He should’ve argued with John for six.

But then, thinking of arguments led back to how he couldn’t think, breathe, blink without flashing back to this morning. John didn’t even storm out, just walked out. Calmly. It was driving Sherlock insane.

John should be angry, so he could be angry, and they would both cool down in a couple of days, and then John would approach his room with a cup of tea, but not come in because he would’ve forgotten how to talk to Sherlock, so he’d leave it outside his door, and then Sherlock would creep out at one in the morning to softly pluck his violin, just enough to think but not enough to wake John, but he’d trip over the cup and spill the cold tea and John would hear the clatter and wake up and make fun of him for being clumsy and Sherlock would roll his eyes and John would get a towel, and it would all be fine but it wasn’t because John walked out calmly.

It was all John’s fault, really.

The case folder was glaring at him accusingly, so Sherlock briefly debated the merits of moving back to the kitchen, but decided against it because that would just make it harder to ignore how much everything reminded him of John, and his head would surely explode.

They’d had spats before, little tussles over how Sherlock never said thank you and how John would try to clean and compromise the integrity Sherlock’s experiments. Neither of them ever apologised because they were both always right, and they’d eventually move on, making small concessions here and there.

But this felt different.

John had been upset, not just angry, like every tiny thing Sherlock had ever done wrong was coming to a head, and Sherlock may be arrogant, but he was not stupid, so he knew that he’d done a lot wrong.

Honestly, Sherlock was a bit surprised it had taken this long.

John would come back, yes, because he’d said he would and John did not lie, except to murderers and Mrs Hudson, when she asked if he’d finished the strawberry jam. But then he’d grow distant, maybe go out with Sarah again, or take on more hours at the surgery, and soon he’d just be a ghost living at the flat. It would be a horrible sort of relief when he left, and the silence would just be silence and not the heavy weight of apologies he’d never say pressing down on his shoulders.

He shouldn’t have let it get to this point.

There were a multitude of things he would’ve said, had he been given a chance to do this morning over. Seven hours, he thought bitterly, that’s how long it takes Sherlock Holmes’ head to catch up to his heart.

He would’ve thanked John for trying to not disturb his hair experiment, which had turned into a enormous waste of time, anyway. He might’ve shown the internal flinch he’d experienced when John told him he always missed the point because he knew he did, he knew he was bad at doing all the things other people did like putting others first and being polite and saying bless you when people sneezed and not scoffing because the sound annoyed them. He knew, and he wanted John to know that he was trying harder, he was, because he’d planned on taking the hair off of the bed, but he had been distracted by a call from Lestrade. And the stomach, it was actually technically a pig’s, not a human’s, so it hadn’t broken the rules because Sherlock was trying to follow them. He still hadn’t put on a fourth patch.

But most of all Sherlock would tell John he did notice. He noticed that John hadn’t slept the entire night through in a full week because Harry drunk-dialled him at one in the morning last Monday. He noticed that if he held his violin just right and slowed the music down in contrast with his thoughts, sometimes the tossing and turning he heard upstairs would settle, and John would come down the next morning with bright eyes and a smile on his face. He noticed that John didn’t often take sugar in his tea, only when he planned on skipping breakfast. He noticed that John cared about him through making him eat and sharp looks angled at people who insulted him and ripping off his nicotine patches when he put just one too many on.

He noticed it all, but John didn’t know and now he was stuck in an empty flat with a case file that refused to unravel and bare itself before his eyes.

Sherlock sighed and let his shoulders droop like he never did. He let his eyes drift closed, and thought about cocaine like Mycroft thought about cake, but didn’t consider it as a reality. Because it would make John even angrier, and he couldn’t have that.

So Sherlock got up, and went to the kitchen. He breathed in the scent of dried blood and dried tissue and dried unshed tears and walked over to the desiccation chamber. He lifted it up, and tossed it into the rubbish bin, then lifted to bin, and walked down the stairs and out to the street, and threw the bin into a dumpster.

Then he walked back upstairs. He walked to John’s room, and entered tentatively, scared to anger a John that wasn’t there. He got the small battery-powered vacuum cleaner that was kept on the table next to his bed, and vacuumed every single hair up.

Sherlock stepped back, and looked over the sheets with an eye he usually reserved for crime scenes and John, and deemed it satisfactory.

He walked out of John’s room, shutting the door behind him like it had been, and went back to the main room. He looked around at the clutter and sighed, but reminded himself it was worth it. John was worth it.

Sherlock promptly turned and walked out of the flat, down the stairs, and knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. She answered with a smile, and Sherlock frowned deeper.

“Yes, dear, what is it? I’ve got some food in the oven, so if you smelled that, you’ll have to come back in-”

“A half hour. I know,” Sherlock forced his brow upward, and tried to sound imploring. “Mrs Hudson I think I, er, need your help.” John was right. It did leave a sour taste in his mouth.

“Of course, Sherlock,” she smiled up at him. “Now. If you’d just sit poor John down and _talk_ to him, I’m sure he feels the sa-”

“No. _No_.” Sherlock cut her off again. Because he was not getting relationship advice from his landlady. Primarily because it was Mrs Hudson, but also because he was not in a relationship.

Of course not, no. He didn’t do relationships.

They demanded compromise and feelings and commitment, and they cluttered up your brain so you couldn’t think about anything else.

No, Sherlock thought as he followed Mrs Hudson up the stairs with the rest of her cleaning supplies. He didn’t do relationships.

* * *

_18:07_

John walked into the flat, dead on his feet and ready to sleep until the following Tuesday. He threw some paperwork he had to fill out and the pen he’d accidentally nicked from the surgery on the coffee table, and collapsed into his chair with a groan. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and was slapped in the face by the sharp smell of lemon. He opened his eyes and looked around the flat suspiciously. Everything was clean, and his papers were actually the only things cluttering up the table. John stood reluctantly and walked back out to check the door to make sure he was in the right place, even though he knew it was stupid because of course he was.

But the flat was tidy. Prim and proper. Books-on-the-shelves and you-could-see-the-wallpaper clean.

“Sherlock?” he called, confused. Maybe Mrs Hudson had finally cracked and murdered Sherlock before she scrubbed the entire flat clean.

The flat was quiet, so he took it that Sherlock was out. Probably tired of sulking without an audience. John ignored the sharp stab at the fact that Sherlock hadn’t even had the courtesy to wait for him to come home, and walked into the kitchen. The counters were shining. Literally. He let out a soft laugh, and went to the fridge. Actual food. Someone went to the shops.

He walked out of the flat, and practically raced down the stairs.

“Mrs Hudson?” he called, knocking on her door.

She opened it, smiling up at him. “I know, John! I was surprised myself-”

“-I don’t know how you convinced him-”

“-don’t know what’s come over him-”

“-looks better than I think I’ve ever seen it-”

“-even let me dust his science equipment without supervis-”

“-thought I’d gone insane when I walked in-”

“-kept muttering about the case the whole time, though-”

“-almost had a heart attack-”

“-yes, and Sherlock was such a dear about it all,” she finished, smiling even bigger.

John felt understanding slowly dawn on him. “What?”

“Oh, I know, dear. He just came in and demanded I help him clean. I thought he’d murdered someone for a moment,” she laughed, but quickly sobered when all John did was give her a tolerant smile. “Well, like I said, he asked for help and so I helped him and it was just lovely. He was such a nice boy about it all. Even went out to Tesco to get the food.”

John narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge if she was lying.

“The absolute truth, I swear it.” Mrs Hudson raised her hands in defence. “Now, dear, if you’d like something warm to eat, Sherlock is asleep, and I just made-”

“Where is he?”

“Last I saw he was on your bed. Out like a light _while_ he was dusting your bookshelves! Poor boy doesn’t have much stamina for this sort of thing, I think.”

John blinked slowly.

“He’s on my bed?”

“Thought about waking him up, but he looked so comfortable. Didn’t have the heart. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

John gave her a tight smile, nodded, and walked back up the stairs. Walked into the apartment. Walked up more stairs, and walked into his room, taking deep breaths. Sherlock didn’t have a single concept of boundaries or respect in his entire bloody mind palace. He entered his room with clenched fists.

Sherlock was asleep on his bed, yes. Dusting rag in his hand, and legs sprawled in the most undignified way, mouth open and nose turned into the pillow slightly. A pillow he was hugging. John stared at him for a while, taking in all the tiny sleeping murmurs Sherlock let out, like he was arguing even while he was unconscious, observing the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek like he was scanning them for information, and the way he gripped the pillow tighter, breathing in deeply while his brow furrowed down like he was confused. Probably wondering why the pillow smelled of John.

It was a full four minutes before he realised he was staring. At his flatmate. Who had no interest in any sort of relationship with him. John looked around for something to do, suddenly feeling extremely stupid. He grabbed his blanket and covered Sherlock up, but drew the line at taking off his shoes. His eyes caught on a series of notebook pages with Sherlock’s barely legible handwriting scribbled all over it. He lifted them up, and caught the light from the hall. They were covered in deductions. About the case, about John’s room, about John.

John nearly chuckled at the image of Sherlock dusting, then narrowing his eyes before dashing across the room to scribble something down, and then running back. It was no wonder he’d fallen asleep.

John started reading them, feeling a small sense of guilt, like he was intruding on something private, but quickly shook it off. Sherlock was in _his_ bed after all. They’d past the point of throwing all boundaries out the window long ago.

He read them all, in the dimly lit square just inside the doorway of his room, Sherlock asleep not three metres away. Some of them made him laugh, and some had a blush creeping up his neck. He filed away the ones about the case.

When he’d finished, he placed them as nearly to the position they were in as he could remember them being, and, before he could think about it too much, he brushed a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, shivering when his neck caught a huff of air from Sherlock’s lips. As he walked out the door, he took out his mobile and shot a text full of deductions off to Lestrade. He could figure it out from there. John looked back at Sherlock’s prone form, and felt a tug in his chest that he chose to ignore.

He walked back downstairs and slept on the couch.


	5. Time, part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going to be in three parts. A long lead up, sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not nsfw, despite the title. not yet. if you’d like to skip just in case, go ahead, but you'll be missing the majority of the start of their romantic relationship.  
> p.s. John and Sherlock met on a Sunday, on the actual calendar, but in the pilot, it says Wednesday, so I went with that.

It takes from five to eight minutes for John to make tea, depending on the circumstances.

It takes twenty-three minutes for Sherlock to have solved the last case.

It takes another three minutes for the rest of Scotland Yard to catch up to him.

It takes John eighteen minutes to shower.

It takes Anderson less than three minutes to get on Sherlock’s last nerve.

It takes Sherlock exactly three and a half seconds to realise he’s in love with John Watson.

* * *

_6 September 2012 10:11_

Of course it was Wednesday. Everything always seems to happen him on a Wednesday. Of course most people have a particular day they say that for, but Sherlock has empirical proof. He was born on a Wednesday. He left to university on a Wednesday. Mycroft got sent to a dietician on a Wednesday. He intruded on his first case on a Wednesday. He’d met John on a Wednesday. Then again he’d first tried drugs on a Thursday. So maybe only the good things happened on Wednesday. It was possible that there was no pattern and he just-

“Maybe you should make a chart,” John said, completely disrupting and disorganising his thoughts. Sherlock turned and tried to look annoyed. He must have been thinking out loud again.

“Yes, why don’t I,” Sherlock answered as sarcastically as he could manage.

John, of course, didn’t even respond to it, trying a different approach. “Are you talking about this yesterday? What happened, anyway? You just did those chart things. Nothing influential, was it?”

Sherlock paused, and flipped over on the couch. “No, nothing important,” he tells the back of the seat.

“Must be something big, if it goes up there with Mycroft being sent to the dietician,” John teased. In a good mood, then, even with work earlier than usual tomorrow, even with Sherlock sulking. Must have had a wank in the shower. And for a reason he didn’t like to think about, that made Sherlock blush like he never did, and he seethed more.

“Sensitive, then?” John continued, voice tentative now. “Right. Sorry. Er, if you don’t want to talk about it-”

Sherlock tuned out his mandatory ‘polite’ social ramblings. John, as usual, had misinterpreted his flushed cheeks. John probably thought it was something extremely personal. Which it was, part of his mind reminded him, but that just made him angrier because he never got uncomfortable about these things and now he was and he couldn’t stop thinking about John. Everything about John, his hair, eyes, smile, how he came home smelling of disinfectant or that one time he smelled of perfume, and how Sherlock had wanted to take him on the couch right there because John was _his_ only he wasn’t and god-

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock burst out, and turned to face him violently.

The room was empty.

Sherlock glanced at the clock, and blew out a breath. 10:43. John had probably gotten tired of him not responding and gone out. Unfortunate, but it provided him the perfect opportunity to analyse this. He went to his bedroom, and shut the door, clicking the lock firmly shut. He lay back on his bed, and shut his eyes firmly, slowing his breath.

He entered his mind palace, rushing past the musty olive coloured room that had an umbrella stand just outside it, past the stairs that led a room consisting purely of wallpaper lined with treble clefs and pen marks, past the doorway that led outside and into a field with dog toys strewn haphazardly. He finally found what he was looking for, and walked into a room that was a warm burgundy, and smelled like disinfectant and tea. He resolutely ignored the bed that he’d not put there on purpose, and looked over at the bulletin board he’d put up on the wall, at the calendar on it, and gently touched the day previous.

* * *

_5 September, 2012 9:05_

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, sitting up even straighter. “Hardly a motive for murder. That case was entirely idiotic from the start.”

“It’s not impossible for someone to get upset about labelling. I mean, yeah, murder’s a bit far, but you accepted that one about a month ago, with the pageant mom, do you remember?”

Sherlock shot John a look. “Of course I remember. But _that_ one made sense. Competition, heightened emotions, and the fact that she was a thinly veiled psychopath.”

John laughed lightly. “Psychopath, huh? Makes sense. Her poor girl looked miserable.”

“Getting off of the relevant subject, John. Explain.”

“Right. Look,” John shifted to attention, and mirrored Sherlock’s position. “It’s like this. Competition, you said. People’s labels for each other are a sort of competition, I guess. And if you like someone more than they like you, you’re losing, and if you like someone loads, you want to have a better label.”

Sherlock stilled, focussing on John, trying to make sense of it, the explanation firing off a million different thoughts.

“Go on,” Sherlock prodded, when it seemed like John was content to leave it like that.

John grabbed a pad of paper a pen and drew a pyramid. “Okay, so here’s the hierarchy of labels,” he started, pausing momentarily when he realised how ridiculous that sounded. “At the bottom, there are acquaintances.” He wrote it at the bottom of the triangle, in tiny handwriting. “And then there are colleagues, friends, and, depending on your personal preferences, family’s somewhere in there.” When he finished filling the spots in, John looked up at Sherlock, smiling conspiratorially, and was surprised to find him looking back at John rather than the paper. Sherlock’s answering crook of his mouth was a second too late. John looked back at the paper, and cleared his throat after finding it suddenly dry. “Yeah. So then at the top is boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, partners, whatever. The people who are important to you. The people you'd give everything up for. The people you love.” John felt stupid, but he drew a sloppy heart at the top, instead of trying to fit all that in.

He ripped the paper out, and handed it over to Sherlock, then leant back. “So after people understand the general idea, the competition kicks in, and some people get really serious about it. I mean, everyone’s had that conversation of ‘where are we going,’ which basically boils down to ‘where should we rank each other right now and in the future.’”

Sherlock squinted, first at the paper, then John. He leant back as well, holding himself carefully upright. He opened his mouth slowly, cleared his throat, then tried again. “So, then. John. Where are we go-”

John clambered so stop him. “No, no. Sherlock. I meant people in _romantic_ relationships do that. We-” he gestured frantically between the two of them, trying to get Sherlock to focus on his hands rather than his rapidly reddening face. “We don’t do that. We’re friends, okay? Right there at the top. Friends.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

When the silence stretched longer than John could manage, he rose. “I’m going upstairs to get ready. I’ve got to go in at eleven.” He nodded briefly at Sherlock and made his escape.

Sherlock’s eyes trailed behind him, watching him walk up the stairs slowly, favouring his leg slightly still. Habit. He forced his gaze away, and looked back at the paper hanging limply in his hand.

Classification. He could handle that.

* * *

_12:42_

Sherlock looked at the larger pyramid he’d spray-painted on the wall. The bottom of his pyramid was significantly larger than should be proportional. Maybe most were like that. Maybe it was just his. Maybe he’d made a mistake. He grabbed the permanent marker he’d been using, and re-evaluated the wall.

The bottom was spanning the entire length of the wall, and Sherlock’s back was already protesting all the time it had taken to write the multitude of names. His entire homeless network was there, along with all the people from previous cases who had either insisted that they owed Sherlock or saw Sherlock regularly, like Angelo. Mycroft’s name was below them all, and Sherlock knew it was childish, but it still made him smile.

The next step up was colleagues. Donovan’s name was scribbled reluctantly on one corner of the layer, joined by Lestrade’s, Dimmock’s, Molly’s, and Mike’s. Sherlock neglected to include Anderson.

The second layer of the pyramid was almost distressingly empty, with only one name. John.

The small triangle at the top was empty.

Sherlock stared at it for just a moment, and then ripped his eyes away from the sparse upper portion. No mistakes. Maybe it was a trend, then. He would have to sample a larger portion. John wouldn’t be home for another three hours, four if he got takeaway. His eyes lit on John’s laptop, and he grinned.

He manoeuvred through the mess and stood in front of the coffee table, pausing momentarily before snatching it up. John surely wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t to invade his personal privacy, after all, just to gather a more reliable population size.

Best not put this one on the wall, though.

* * *

_15:59_

John came home to find Sherlock on one end of the couch scribbling frantically on four pages of A4 paper held together by plasters. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and walked up to the table, plopping the Chinese food on top of on of the papers.

“You could’ve just used the wall,” he joked, trying to catch Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock grabbed the bags and tossed them next to him on the couch before resuming. “Already did.”

John looked over at the wall incredulously and let of a string of curses that spoke of his military career.

“Impressive,” Sherlock muttered, still writing. “Don’t think I’ve heard over half of those before. Was that Dari at the end there?”

John didn’t answer, just sank into the couch, and let the headache he could feel coming overtake him.

“Our rent.”

“Will probably increase astronomically,” Sherlock finished for him. “But I couldn’t find the paper until about an hour ago.” He glanced over at John for the first time. “Don’t look at the kitchen table.”

Which, of course, inspired John’s heavy limbs to carry him through the door into the next room.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John breathed. The table was covered in marker, names over every inch.

“It’s all entirely erasable. Or, washable, at least,” Sherlock shouted from where he’d taken John’s position on the couch, to reach the far corner of the paper.

John breathed deeply, like he’d read he should do when overcome by an intense need to strangle his completely mad flatmate, and then let it out. As long as it came out, there was no harm here, was there? _Yes_ , his mind muttered irritably, but he forced his hands to uncurl from the edges of the counter, and watched the colour return to his knuckles.

He looked back at the scribbles, and realised he recognised over half the names. Actually, as he continued deciphering Sherlock’s handwriting, he knew all of them.

“Sherlock, what is this?” he called, only to feel a light rush of adrenaline when Sherlock answered from right behind him.

“That one’s yours.”

“My what?”

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff of air. “Your pyramid.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” John could see it now. A loose outline of everyone Sherlock knew he knew. He leant closer, curious of where Sherlock had placed everyone. His right hip bumped against Sherlock’s thigh, and he could feel Sherlock jump.

“Sarah should be in friends, Sherlock.”

“Hardly. After the romantic aspect of your relationship was terminated, she purposefully distance herself from you, and probably would have stopped all communication had you not been working in the same location.”

John thought it over, remembering her hurried excuses every time he’d asked to go out to lunch with her, just as friends, or the look on her face when he bumped into her in the morning by the coffee maker. Sherlock was right. As always.

“I guess,” he sighed, “Thanks again for that, by the way.”

He could practically hear Sherlock’s eyes roll. “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway, and you know it.”

“Maybe,” John allowed. “But then, I’d rather not have an empty space there, yeah?” He pointed to the tip of his pyramid, and turned to fix Sherlock with a half-heartedly accusing glare. Sherlock was closer than he expected, though, and his eyes widened of their own accord. He heard a quick intake of breath, and then his vision was filled the wall of the kitchen.

Sherlock was a good two metres away now.

“I’m sure that’s how the majority of the population feels,” Sherlock said, voice just a touch hoarser than before. Six months ago, John wouldn’t have noticed.

He grinned inwardly for a reason he didn’t want to pinpoint, and made his way back to the doorway.

“Let’s see the others, then.”

* * *

_16:36_

Sherlock threw the marker down. "Now you're just being absurd."

John stood his ground, and lifted the sopping wet cloth from the bucket on the back of the couch and scrubbed the wall with spirit. "No, I'm not," he said, with exaggerated patience. "Lestrade belongs in friends and you know it." He stooped to pick up the marker, and carefully wrote in the name one layer up.

"I'm not entirely sure anyone knows it except for you, apparently," Sherlock scowled.

John ignored him and continued down, scanning for any more editing he should do.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "You've basically ruined the entire thing already. Aren't we done?"

John smiled at the wall, adding a small flourish to the j in his name because he could and he knew it would annoy Sherlock. "You're the one who wanted to do this in the first place. And don't you want accurate data?"

The answering 'yes,' was barely more than a mumble.

"Exactly," John wrote Anderson in under colleagues, and Sherlock made a disgruntled sound. "So we have to put them all in the correct spots, and we have to include  _everyone_. Even the idiots." He grinned over at Sherlock, and the detective gave him a begrudgingly genuine smirk.

"But they were in the right spots," Sherlock protested, back to sulking. "I think I would know."

"You'd think," John scoffed under his breath, scanning the wall for any more corrections to be made. "There. Done."

"Finally," Sherlock groaned, and stepped off the couch to collapse in his chair.

John didn't even try not to lose his balance, just flopped right down on the couch, head at the end opposite the now-cold takeaway. He turned his head to Sherlock. "You know, none of the people you did have the top of their pyramids filled in."

Sherlock sat up infinitesimally, and cocked his head to the left. "So? Does that mean something?"

"I don't know. You're the genius."

Sherlock relaxed again and let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. "True."

"Jesus," John rolled his eyes. "Would it kill you to act humble for one second?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said haughtily. "Never tried."

That shocked John into letting out a laugh that went on longer than he expected, but he'd had a long day, and he was tired and hungry, and it was just such a  _Sherlock_ thing to say. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was looming over him.

"John?"

"Yeah, sorry," John sobered enough to push Sherlock away gently, sitting up. He grabbed the takeaway from the opposite end, and placed it on the floor between his feet. His hands touched the first package, now completely room temperature, and took it out. He opened it, observed the limp noodles and disgusting wet noises it made, and promptly closed it again.

"Right, then. My dinner is completely ruined now."

Sherlock's eyes strayed to the ceiling. "Not my fault you took so long. Who knew you'd be a perfectionist."

John's laugh surprised him, and Sherlock even more. " _I'm_ the perfectionist? Sherlock, the first month I moved in here, I thought you had a weird sort of OCD where everything had to either be a mess," John gestured vaguely around them, "or perfect," he hand pointed directly at Sherlock before he realised what he was doing and let it drop.

Sherlock scoffed. "You're a medical man, John. You should know better."

John gave him a look that Sherlock couldn't read. "I doubt any of the normal rules apply to you."

Sherlock sighed contentedly. "No, I don't think they do."

"Of course you'd take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't it?"

"I-" John stopped. "I don't know." He straightened his back, and looked over at Sherlock, who was observing him carefully. "Maybe." He ran his hands over his face and stood up. "I'm going out to get some different food. Don't feel like Chinese anymore. Want anything?"

"Not hungry."

John chuckled. "Are you ever?"

Sherlock watched him leave for the second time that day.

"Sometimes," he answered an empty room.

* * *

_18:40_

John had been gone more than it took to go to his favourite Indian place, the obvious place he was going. Must have either needed a break or have met someone at the restaurant. Sherlock ignored the slightly nauseous feeling the second option gave him.

He'd been doing that a lot lately.

Sherlock looked to the right of the ceiling, at his pyramid that John had fixed. It was a much more uniform shape now, more like a triangle, but the top was still bare.

His eyes bounced to the table, at Lestrade's and he looked over the jumbled mess they'd ended up with at the top, 'wife' having been scratched out, and other one night stands since not included. He could clearly picture John's. The largest of any of them, because John had always been more of a people person. Names overlapping names and almost a perfect triangle. Except the top. Empty, like the others. It didn't make sense. John is the most well-adjusted, and fit into society by all other standards, but had failed to find a significant other.

But then, Sherlock realised, he hadn't been looking. After Sarah, there came a series of girlfriends, all lasting a week or two, then nothing. No more women being brought home and Sherlock being told to shut up, no John coming home smelling like too much perfume and makeup, no more anything. The thought made Sherlock grin as he remembered how miserable it had been.

Sherlock turned his head toward the kitchen, and caught the slight scent of John's shampoo, left there after he'd gotten up. He smiled lightly and looked fondly over at John's chair. He let his eyes slip close to the echo of the image, and allowed himself the luxury of just letting his mind drift around. John must've gotten milk. The fridge was running like it had a heart problem, and it only did that when it was heavier than normal. His last experiment was almost completely useless. He could either wait until it exploded and splattered all over the kitchen or throw it away now. He sniffed the air, and only caught a slight hint of acidity. He had about four hours to decide. He turned his head to the armrest, and breathed deeply again. John's shampoo was a new one. Smelled nice. He should tell him.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open. What the hell was he thinking. He was wasting space with these thoughts. His mind raced, deleting everything irrelevant, washing out the endorphins threatening to overtake him. It skipped lightly over everything related to John, but deleted everything about the experiment to spite it all. His heart thumped against his ribcage and he catalogued the speed, counting the seconds and beats simultaneously. He couldn't figure out what was happening. Sherlock flashed back to their earlier conversation, how John had described it all. 

_The people who are important to you._

One;  _thump thump._ No one was more important than John.

_The people you'd give everything up for._

Two; _thump thump thump._ Hadn't he stopped the experiments, the patches, the smoking, the violin at 'ungodly' hours?

_The people you love._

Three; _thump thump._ Sherlock couldn't breathe.

About 150 rpms. Elevated. His lungs were straining.

 _Lovelovelovelovelove._ No. No you couldn't because John would never-  _lovelovelovelovelovelovelo-_ John barely even tolerated hi-  _lovelovelovelovelov-_ He would destroy Jo-  _lovelovelovelove-_

* * *

  _6 September 2012 12:01_

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his heart was pounding. Leftover stimulus from the memories. He held his breath and waited for his heart to slow to at least 135 rpms and then let it out, seeing black at the edges because of how long it had taken. He'd filed away all the information hastily yesterday when John had walked in and ran over to him, worried as usual. He'd put it quickly into his mind palace and tried to delete it from his conscious mind so he could function properly. Which worked, temporarily. But he'd known he would have to go back through it eventually.

He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth until he was as relaxed as could be, under the circumstances. He stared up at the ceiling, and blinked, in quick succession, mindlessly noticing how his head moving side to side slightly created an effect similar to the older movie reels.

He sighed, deleted that information, and sat up, dragging his hands over his hair down to his cheeks. He stood, faced the mirror of his wardrobe, and nodded firmly at his reflection. He could do this. Even if he'd never actually been in love, millions had, and thousands more in the position of unrequited. So. If they could handle it he most certainly could.

Sherlock walked to the door, unlocked it, and snapped it open, crisp like his thoughts.

And almost ran into John, arm raised like he was going to knock, cup of tea in his left hand.

"Oh."

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Yes."

"Right."

Sherlock hissed out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, what is it?"

"Just, er," John looked down at the dark liquid, and no, of course he didn't notice how his hair slid further down his forehead, out of the ruthless combing John implemented every morning. But Sherlock did. "Just wanted to check up on you. Seemed sort of in a strop this morning."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Well, more than usual," John conceded. "Less 'yelling at everyone and bored' more, I dunno, more 'I just got rejected.'" John still hadn't met his eyes.

Sherlock grabbed the cup from John, taking note of how lukewarm it was. Oscillated around his door for a while, then. It had cooled before he could convince himself to knock. "I'm fine, John."

"Good." John let it go, wincing as his fingers were caught in an awkward angle because they were threaded through the handle. Sherlock filed that away, as well. Must have been worse than he'd thought.

"Actually," Sherlock started, setting the cup down on the table by his bed before making his way back toward the door where John was still standing. "I'm hungry."

John's tongue reached out to flick across his lips subconsciously, and Sherlock rolled his eyes inwardly at the answering tug in his lower stomach. "Me, too."

"Chinese?"

John grinned, and lead the way down the stairs. "Sure."


	6. Time, part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More lead up because I am a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not nsfw. there is an explicit mention of suicide, so if that's a trigger please message me or just skip it, as I'd really like to avoid any problems.

_20 September 2012 20:21_

The second nicotine patch slapped on his arm with a satisfyingly loud snap and Sherlock smiled to himself, even when John sighed and shifted in his chair, upset.

Maybe especially because of that.

Because to be frank - and he  _always_  tried to be frank - Sherlock was a bit miffed. Or maybe just frustrated as all hell.

Because in the two weeks, hour and, Sherlock glanced at the clock, forty one minutes since he'd had a case, John had yet to leave the forefront of his mind. He loved John, yes, but had come to terms with the fact that it was impossible that John would love him back, irresponsible to throw caution to the wind and try anyway, and just stupid to think otherwise. He'd been occupied with thoughts of him for days. At first it was fine, he'd tried to reassure himself. He'd payed closer attention than before, cataloguing all of the nuances of John's moods, the things that made him smile. He'd memorised the way his eyes lit up when he was trying to stifle a laugh and how his brow furrowed in the most attractive way when he was frustrated with Sherlock.

Then a restless feeling had began to steal over him, revealing itself in small ways. An overwhelming urge to smooth out the wrinkle in John's forehead when he came home from a long day, an unreachable itch to run his hands through John's ruffled morning hair, an insatiable hunger whenever it came to anything related to John Watson. It surprised him, the intensity, and he was next to helpless against it. He'd had years to adjust to disregarding his other needs, so this caught him off guard, and he could hardly resist. Sometimes, he gave in. Just here and there. He'd brush the back of his hand across John's face while reaching for his robe lying across the back of the chair, or he'd end up smiling stupidly at John's back while he puttered around the kitchen making toast. Sometimes he almost thought he saw an answering shine in John's eyes.

But that didn't change anything. And now he was still caught in a trap with brown eyes and a degree in getting under his skin.

He'd been awake all night trying to distract himself, as even sleep wouldn't cooperate. He'd play his violin, screeching out discordant notes and rapid arpeggios just to look down an hour later to find his fingers had betrayed him by playing soft music, that lullaby he'd played while John had been having nightmares the week previous. He tossed the instrument down onto the couch in disgust, minding the strings because he was frustrated but not stupid.

After that, he'd tried experimenting, test tubes and droppers and chemicals that desensitised his nose to the smell of John permeating the flat. But as he let drops of sodium carbonate settle into the distilled water, he noticed his hands shake, and thought of John's steady grip. And when he poured some hydrochloric acid on the old shirt John uses to sleep in, he feels a sick sense of satisfaction. Because if he has to deal with this, John should suffer repercussions, too. Because the twinge of guilt pulling at the back of his gut was bothering him more than he was willing to admit.

He'd still been experimenting with different concentrations and what it did to the fabric's consistency when John had stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast. John had opened his mouth, and Sherlock had tensed, waiting for an argument because  _yes,_  thank god, _anything_ would be better than this, but John had just let out a sigh, a short grumble, and let it go. It was disgustingly nice.

He'd spent the earlier part of morning watching John's micro-expressions while he read the paper and drank his coffee, trying to guess what section he was reading, and when John left, finally left, he thought it would be the end of it, at least for now, but no, of course not. He'd been drawn back to the couch, lying down face up, staring at the ceiling and outlining a new experiment when his stretched out feet encountered a jumper that'd been tossed carelessly over the opposite end of the couch. John's, of course. Sherlock never wore jumpers.

Which led his train of thought to the difference between his normal clothing and John's. Why did he favour jumpers so much? Why did he live in jeans and loafers? Sherlock had never considered his clothing uncomfortable, but maybe it wasn't comfortable, either. Maybe John had the upper hand. It certainly seemed to provide him more manoeuvrability, even with Sherlock's suit being so well-cut. His eyes had strayed down to the beige piece of clothing, and stuck. Even as he'd tried to convince himself not to do it, his hands had reached out and grabbed it.

It slid softly into his lap, a comfortably heavy weight, and Sherlock stripped his dress robe along with the inside out shirt that he'd been wearing. The sweater went over his head, ruffling his hair and rubbing the irritatingly sensitive skin on his face raw. The arms were too short, so he'd scrunched them up to rest just below his elbow. It smelled like John. It  _looked_  like John, even on his own gangly self. He stood, walked over to the mirror above the fireplace, and stared.

The beige colour made his pale skin paler and his hair look almost blue, it was so dark. It emphasised every difference there was between him and John, and Sherlock mechanically catalogued them even as his eyes slid shut at the sight.

He'd jumped away after a moment, determined not to let his mind settle into a checkmate with John again.

His arms had looked different, cut clearly at the elbow, instead of the long, smooth line his suits usually provided. They'd looked firmer, more likely to play piano than violin. Sherlock had smiled down at them, and brought them to hover at his sides again, marvelling at how the fabric caught on itself and pulled the body of the jumper askew. He felt an unfamiliar sense of calm wash over him.

Next thing to do, he'd reasoned, would obviously be test mobility.

He stretched, holding back a small laugh as the furriness of it brushed against his ribs, where he was ticklish. He grabbed his violin back up, and set into position, letting the music distract as much as he could for a while, settling on something more intricate, Paganini caprice No. 4. After this test of ordinary use, he would see how well he could move in extreme situations.

John had come home to him lying upside down in his chair, eyes closed, 'The Last Rose of Summer' wafting through the room. He'd cleared his throat, and when that went ignored, he sat in his chair, opposite Sherlock.

"Beautiful," he commented.

Sherlock had startled slightly at the new sound in the room, then vaguely lamented the loss of his experiment before he realised he was supposed to answer John. He'd hummed softly in response, and let the music taper off, opening his eyes slowly, hazily outlining John's day in his head as he took him in, upside down.

"Ernst."

John had given a similar sort of hum back, and settled back in his chair.

"So how was your day?" Sherlock cautioned, eying him warily. There wasn't clear etiquette on how to act around someone who was capable of breaking you and occupying all your thoughts and driving you insane. Small talk was always a fallback.

John had rolled his eyes, already thinking about dinner from the tilt of his head. "Like you don't already know."

It was true. "Good day, except for one child with a broken - arm, was it? He, no  _she_ , cried more than you were comfortable with, and her parent was panicking and you yelled at him, which of course only made the child cry harder." Idiots.

"He was acting like a complete prat, and the little girl was taking signals from him. The moment I forced him out of the room, she calmed down completely." John had sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "But she wasn't the only one today. Who else?"

Sherlock had swiftly turned around, facing John, leaning forward letting his violin dangle down between his outspread legs. "Other than that you had six other patients, two for monthly check-ups, three with the flu, and one to get their stitches off."

John had grinned, and part of Sherlock's mind had set off on a trail of white teeth and the marks they might leave on his skin.

"Right. Of course."

"Of course," Sherlock responded, eyes narrowed. It was about then that John's grin had started to unnerve him.

John had smiled wider, morphing into a lopsided grin, the sort he always wore when he thought he'd outsmarted Sherlock.

"And?"

"And what?" Sherlock snapped, trying to decide if he was angrier with his stomach for the utterly irritating flutter it gave at the grin, or John, for distracting him enough that he apparently missed something.

"Well, what else happened?"

Sherlock had leaned forward more, examining the minutiae of John's appearance.  _Finally_ , the distraction he was looking for. Nothing but facts and figures were on his mind, even as his eyes traced over the weathered lines of John's forehead, shoulders, arms.

"Are you wearing my jumper?"

"Sh," Sherlock had muttered, reaching out an arm to pull John closer, inhaling deeply. And there it had been. A faint, faint whiff of Claire de la Lune. John had always had a preference for that perfume. Eighty-five percent of his past girlfriends had worn it, by Sherlock's estimates. "A date," Sherlock had glared, drawing back, because suddenly it was too much, too much scent and touching and John because John had a date and he was going to leave Sherlock maybe he would kiss her maybe she would get to trace the fine hairs on the nape of his neck like Sherlock never got to.

"Yes, Sherlock, a date," John had repeated distractedly. "Now, really, though, my jumper."

Sherlock hadn't deigned to answer, just walked over to the couch and laid back staring up blankly. "I need to think." He had reached around by feel behind his head for the box of nicotine patches, wrestling one free and pressing it to his skin.

John had stiffened. He'd never liked the patches.

Just to spite him, Sherlock slapped on another one.

Which brought him back to how fucking  _angry_ he was.

Because even now, in a nicotine-sharpened haze and his mind zipping through possibilities, endless, experiments, research, murders, chemicals, fabrics, cigarette brands, the thread count of fifteen different types of cotton, there was still John, intermixed with everything. Chemicals. C43H66N12O12S2. Research. He could use John's laptop. Fabrics. The jumper was so  _so_ soft. Cigarettes. John hated them. John, John, John.

He tried retreating into himself, but it seemed he was no longer his own ally. He'd never had to fight a battle with his mind, his refuge, and now he was unprepared, and losing badly. He tried to shift his focus, but he couldn't. He was still stuck on him, analysing every change in expression, all the little things that added up to the wearily tired doctor. He was still aware of every shift of muscle that occurred in the chair approximately a two metres away. He still couldn't inhale without feeling the soft brush of the jumper against his collarbone. And John was still just  _sitting_ there _._

He huffed out a breath and debated the merits of adding a third patch.

Probably best not to.

He added one, anyway.

"Sherlock," John's voice warned, muffled from behind his hands, which were covering his face.

Sherlock flashed upright, laser focus on John. "What?" he spat.

John's hands melted off his face in resignation. He looked lost. "I-"

Sherlock's mobile rang.

The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch rather than diffused, and Sherlock's heart gave a jump start before slowing back down to just racing.

 John didn't move to answer it, and rather than wait out his impatience, Sherlock jumped up, pressing the answer key with more force than necessary.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock?" he sounded incredulous. "You answered?"

"You called," Sherlock answered, annoyed. "Case?"

"Oh, right, yeah. A young girl, about twen-"

"Doesn't matter, I'll take it."

"Oh," Lestrade said, surprised. "Okay. It's on the corner of-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, finished with the conversation about five seconds ago, when he answered the phone. "Text me the details. I'll be there."

He hung up before Lestrade could get an answer in, and grinned at John for the first time in what seemed like months.

"We've got a case."

* * *

_22:54_

The body was displayed dramatically, curled in on itself, left arm flung across her stomach, the right reaching out, almost touching the wall in front of her, just out of reach. A look that Sherlock could only think of as relaxed panic on her face. Her makeup was done carefully, but the corner of her mascara had leaked, smudging the right corner of her right eye. It looked like a scene from one of those classical Victorian novels.

"How romantic," Sherlock said, sarcasm laced in his voice.

Donovan shot him a sharp look, and Lestrade let out a puff of air, an aborted attempt to reprimand Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John said, casting a look at the sky like it would understand his exasperation.

"Sentiment?" The word slipped past his lips before he could capture it and force it down with a haughty scoff.

"Yeah." The answer was more a sigh than anything else.

Sherlock let it lie, and turned back to the girl. Her hair was splayed dramatically across the pavement, and her skin was pale against the navy blue dress she wore. He leant down, and smelled the area near her mouth. Chemicals, just as he'd thought. Adding that in with her appearance, blue lips, and obvious distress, it all painted a simple picture. Overdose; self-administered, most likely sleeping pills.

"Identification?"

Lestrade's voice bounced off of the wall in front of him in the alley. "None found on the body."

Of course. No pockets. He examined the rest of her body, a long, thin scrape on her left thigh, already scabbed over, the beginnings of a deep purple bruise on her right wrist. Her hair had recently been cut, just a trim, and her feet were bare. She had prominent bags under her eyes, and the thin, nervous hands of someone with severe anxiety. Her blank eyes stared up at him, and they somehow managed to still look scared.

Sherlock let out a sigh, and closed his eyes.

"There's no murderer."

Lestrade shifted behind him, about to ask a question, but Sherlock just bowled him over.

"Suicide. Obvious, no signs of forced ingestion, nor coercion. She took the pills herself." Sherlock stepped back, for once not willing to explain the rest.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, and then when no other words were forthcoming from Sherlock, he let out an impatient noise. "Come on, then. Out with it."

Sherlock paused, considered protesting, but then decided it wasn't worth it.

"She came down from the balcony, scraping her leg on the unfinished edge of the metal there," he gestured up at the iron stairs leading down to the smaller area they were in. "Probably came down from the third storey. She'd had a fight with her older sibling, most likely caretaker as well, from the bruising around her wrist. A parent would have relied on the authority of their status, would've been able to make her stay, but a sibling would resort to force, but she wrenched her arm away. Left, came here. Stayed for a bit, hanging her legs down through the bars on the platform, put on her makeup." He pointed up at the platform between two sets of stairs. A small compact was lying on the ground.

Anderson sneered. "Of course, we could have figured that out."

"Yes, which leads me to the question of why didn't you get the rest?" Sherlock barely spared his sputter a half-smirk, leading on with the rest of his deductions. "Afterwards, she took out her mobile, texted her boyfriend, most likely, could've been a girl, but, balance of probability. So, boyfriend, obviously the cause of the fight with her sibling as well as the makeup. She was resolute, if she fought with her presumably very loyal sibling, that the boy was worth something. She sat there, makeup on, and then started texting," Sherlock lifted his hands in a rough approximation of the movement.

"But then something happened." Sherlock maintained eye contact with his shoes to cover the flash of anger. "Something stupid and easily avoidable."

He drifted over to the body, looking down at the abnormal sprawl, the defensive posture, and let his mouth continue to explain mechanically as his mind wandered off. "She got hurt. Possible break up, maybe a row, but given the extremity of her actions, I'd even say the boyfriend was unfaithful. She snuck back upstairs, to put her things back. Shoes, makeup, mobile, most likely, safely stashed away in her room. But. She saw her pills, and made a rash decision. Because the pills were the ones she takes every night. Pills designed to help her ..sleep." Sherlock looked down at her face, and felt a flash of what he wouldn't like to call pity.

"She took a large dosage, probably came back down here first, reliving the last few moments when she still had what she believed was important. She came down to the alley, and watched the cars pass." Sherlock motioned to the indent in the dirt beside her bum, where she'd fallen over after the drugs started taking their course, then the street, where cars were still driving by like nothing had changed.

"She was calm, no movement other than to sit right there. But then something else happened. She changed her mind. Maybe her sibling called down to her, and thought nothing of the lack of response other than an angry teenager." Sherlock suppressed the inner flinch that they might still not know that she was lying dead. "Maybe she saw something- beautiful." His eyes wandered toward John's face of their own accord, and he saw a flurry of emotions, overwhelming pity, anger, and the same touch of awe they always held when Sherlock went off like this.

He broke the contact forcefully and turned out to the street. "She began to feel sluggish, and struggled, arm reaching out just so, but it was too late. Amazing, that she managed to keep her eyes open." Sherlock briefly entertained the morbid thought that the last thing she'd seen had been the dank brick wall of the building to her left. Not even her own residence.

"So as you can tell, Detective Inspector," Sherlock finished, refusing to use Lestrade's name, refusing to be part of this any more than his presence had already forced him to be. "No murderer. Suicide."

One of the crime scene investigators let out a choked sound. Sherlock's eyes flashed to John, who was looking at the body with an overwhelming amount of compassion, and decided against saying anything else, instead turning to leave, but was stopped by Lestrade hooking a hand in the crook of his elbow.

"You okay?"

"Of course, just disappointed. This one was so easy," Sherlock answered, eyes trained on the cars passing. He risked a glance back to see how far behind John was, and thought for just a moment that he understood, maybe, what the girl had felt scared of losing.

* * *

_21 September 0:02_

Sherlock hailed a cab, and let John figure his own way to get home. He spent the whole ride wondering about the concept of love. Is this what people lived for? A force that could kill? Is this what he'd gotten himself into?

* * *

 

_1:13_

John caught up at the end of it all, his cab just seconds behind Sherlock's. He'd gotten better at keeping up.

Sherlock barely made it inside the door, set to race up the stairs, his feet pounding in time with his mind, but John’s hands snaked around his wrist as he took off his coat. Sherlock let out a frustrated noise, and yanked his arm away. John narrowed his eyes and held on, waiting until Sherlock stilled to let go.

His face was far too tender for Sherlock to look at directly.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock cast a look at the air right next to John’s face. “What?”

“Look at me.”

Sherlock drew himself up, every inch the posh schoolboy everyone assumed he was. “Why?” He winced internally at the petulant tone.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John repeated, steel infused in his voice.

Sherlock’s eyes slid to John’s before he could tell them not to. They were calm, clear, and he could see his face reflected in them, paler than usual with an underlying note of panic.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sherlock let his eyes rest comfortably on John’s left cheek. Some stubble had grown since that morning, and there were still traces of shaving cream on his jaw. He ignored the urge to wipe it off.

“Quit fucking _lying_ to me,” John bit out, stepping into Sherlock’s area even more. “You’ve been in a strop for days. You quit eating three days ago. Not even tea. You won’t look at my face, like I disgust you, and now a murder has actually gotten to you. I mean, to _you_. _Something’s_ got to be wrong.”

“What the hell do you want me to say?” Sherlock hissed, taking a step of his own, ignoring how John’s face had become guarded at his curse. “What? ‘Oh, John, I’ve been feeling out of sorts, please, would you fix me?’”

John’s eyes sharpened, concentrating on his face, and he let out a minute sigh. “But it’s not just that is it? Just being yourself? Something’s upset you. Been going on for days and days.”

“What are you talking about?” The question sounded mechanical even to his own ears.

“You tell me,” John had taken a vehement tone, like he was angry with Sherlock for having the audacity to hold onto his mood for so long.

“It’s all your fault anyway,” Sherlock spit, barely able to distinguish the features John’s face from between his almost-touching eyelashes. Good.

“Oh, that’s so rich,” John said, a humourless smile stretching across his face. “Blame it on me as usual.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at John’s regard. As if it was one of their regular spats. ‘Just Sherlock being ridiculous as usual. Ignore him. Should settle down in a couple days.’ Sherlock felt a sense of bitterness wash over him. “It is. All. Your. Fault,” he broke it apart, pushing into John, crowding into his area, overcoming that, and pushing him against the wall so he had to strain his neck to look at Sherlock.

“Is it?” John breathed, anger replaced by something else. Sherlock was too far gone to care.

“Yes,” he rumbled, fuelled on by weeks of frustration. “Can’t experiment, can’t play my violin, can’t breathe. You’re everywhere John. You’re everywhere and I can’t get enough and I wish it would stop and it doesn’t matter because it’s your fault.”

John’s eyes widened in contrast with Sherlock’s glare, and he tilted his head to the right. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock mirrored John’s tilt, leaning over some.

“What?” John’s eyes had glazed over, and Sherlock noted it distantly.

“I said-” John’s lips crashed over his own, and it was like a switch was flipped. Sherlock felt his back slam against the opposite wall, and he fought to hold his own. John's hands came up, running roughly over his arms, to his shoulders, where they pulled him down further, to grant John better access to his mouth. When he gasped for air, John took the opportunity to slide his tongue between Sherlock’s lips, lightly brushing it against his teeth.

Sherlock felt a strange wave of relief course through him, and leant into it. John held onto his neck, keeping it in his firm grip for leverage. Sherlock melted into his hand, cradling John's head between his hands. He ran his hands through John's hair, revelling in the way it resisted when he pushed against the way it normally lay. He wondered for a moment if there was some sort of extreme metaphor there, with him and John, but then John broke away, and the loss of the warm mouth on his own caused his train of thought to taper off.

He let out what was most certainly not a whimper, and opened eyes he hadn't even realised had slipped closed.

He tried to form John's name, but the only sound he heard was a confused groan.

John's eyes were calm, even with their pupils blown wide, as they studied him. Whatever they were searching for, they must've found it, because he leant in again, nudging Sherlock's jaw up with his nose.

When John's lips brushed against the side of his neck, Sherlock heard a gasp that he dimly realised must've come from his mouth. John's tongue snuck out and lapped against the dip in his collarbone, then the scruff from the day brushed against it as he brought his mouth to rest directly beside Sherlock's head.

"Fucking  _finally_ ," he breathed, teething lightly at the shell of Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock's breath stuttered in his chest as John continued to on his trail downward, pushing the opening of his dress shirt aside to nip at his collarbone. His hands rested on John's shoulders weakly for a few moments until he realised that he'd done nothing to reciprocate, which seemed fine with John. He pushed John back far enough to dip down and recover contact with his lips, and this time it was Sherlock who took the initiative when John let his lips part slightly, pushing in and rubbing his tongue against John's, winding it around his mouth, tasting leftover takeaway and horrible coffee and adrenaline. He moaned into it, because it wasn't like he'd imagined at all because it was  _better_ , because it was real and the warm breath against his own mixed in the air, filling it up, and Sherlock realised just how empty it had been recently.

He drew back further, feeling giddy, and let a smile spread over his face. He didn't care about anything, all the reasons he'd provided for weeks about how he shouldn't bother, shouldn't try, it wasn't good for either of them, because this? He couldn't see how it was anything  _but_ good. Because he wanted to keep the dazed look on John's face forever. Because even in the few seconds it took to catch his breath, his brain still hadn't charged in and ripped it apart. Because it seemed like this could go on forever.

John grinned back at him, head still tilted at the same angle, hair mussed. He looked open and honest and perfect and Sherlock couldn't help but run his fingers through his hair again, just his fingertips, then delving deep, smile growing wider when John's eyes lost some of their focus and his head turned pliant in his hands.

He dropped his head to John's ear, a salute to how they were just moments before. "Finally?"

John smiled, and turned his head to the side, brushing his lips against Sherlock's in an almost-kiss. "I've been waiting months."

Sherlock's eyes popped open. " _Months_?"

John smiled and kissed Sherlock, soft, open-mouthed, and familiar, like they'd been doing it for years. "Months."

Sherlock was torn between frustration at his own stupidity for not seeing it and the rush of warmth that he wasn't alone in whatever this was. He was still trying to settle on one when the decision was ripped from him as John bit his lip to get more of his attention, as if he wasn't monopolising it like nothing Sherlock ever experienced did.

"Months are long you know," John whispered, drawing his attention back to Sherlock's neck. He seemed to be fond of it. "I've had so much time."

Sherlock hummed, the ability to form words lost on him as John traced the line just beneath his jawline with his lips.

"So many ideas," John hummed, popping the first of Sherlock's buttons open, guiding him to the stairs. Sherlock belatedly realised that anyone could've walked in on them.

"And now," John growled, leading Sherlock nimbly up the steps backwards, much better than Sherlock could've managed at the moment, "I get to try all of them."


	7. Time, part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut. Skip if you'd like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about adding lazy morning smut to this later. I don't know. 
> 
> Finally nsfw.

_21 September 1:21_

They'd almost made it entirely up the stairs when John's heel caught on the last step, causing him to land on his back just inside the door with a soft puff of air, and Sherlock to be dragged down with him.

John let a laugh out as he flipped them over, looking down at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, although the imperious air of it was mostly put out by his swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

"It's just," John started, interrupting himself by landing a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips simply for the fact that he could. "In all the ways I thought about being on top of you, that wasn't it."

Sherlock felt himself achieve what he thought was impossible when his blush deepened. "If you had considered statistical probability, then 'falling' should have ranked at least in the top-"

John cut him off, dipping his head to kiss him until he felt Sherlock's erection push into his thigh. He widened his legs until he was straddling Sherlock, and rolled his hips experimentally.

Sherlock groaned, and let his head fall back from where John was holding it.

John felt the humour drain out of him, because he hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected it to be that easy to undo Sherlock, hadn't expected him to look so inviting and open and trusting.

Hadn't expected the achingly familiar twinge to make its home in his chest.

He attacked Sherlock with renewed vigour, not even trying to make it off the floor, flicking the buttons on his shirt open with steady hands, and mapping out each bit of revealed skin with his tongue. When he reached the bottom of his shirt, John yanked it open, not even bothering to push it off of Sherlock's arms before he found Sherlock's nipples, mouthing at them while he wrapped his hands around Sherlock's ribs, marvelling at how they practically encircled his entire circumference.

Sherlock's breath hitched, and a small laugh escaped.

John's eyes wandered up to Sherlock's face, observing Sherlock's upturned mouth even as his eyes glared down at him balefully.

Ticklish.

John grinned and brushed his hands against his ribs again, as he licked Sherlock's left nipple, then blew on it. Sherlock's face slackened as the breath in his lungs abandoned him and John moaned because it shouldn't be that erotic but it was, maybe just because it was Sherlock, definitely because of the warming knowledge that _he'd_ caused it. _  
_

He couldn't stand it anymore, so he sat back on his heels, ignoring Sherlock's whine when his warm weight left his lap, and fumbled to open the fly of Sherlock's trousers, drawing the zipper down quickly, allowing himself only a moment to caress the head of Sherlock's cock through the fabric before he grabbed the waistband of Sherlock's pants with his trousers and pulled them down quickly, not even letting Sherlock kick them off before John took his bare cock into his hand.

Sherlock lips formed a loose version of "John," and his hips thrust up of their own accord.

"Not yet, you don't," John mumbled, moving with Sherlock's hips, denying him the friction that he so desperately needed.

"John," Sherlock growled, as smoky as the cigarettes he favoured and John almost took pity on him, but then his mind flashed back to the months and months of waiting and hoping and fucking  _fantasising_ , and it was suddenly much easier to simply enjoy to need infused in his voice as he let go of Sherlock's prick, and trailed his hand back up to his chest.

"Sherlock," he answered, and damn if it didn't come out more breathless than he'd planned but he was finding it so hard to keep his resolve.

 "I need-"

"No, Sherlock, you  _want_ ," John admonished, tweaking Sherlock's nipple. "Your accuracy leaves much to be," he dipped his head to nip of Sherlock's earlobe, "desired."

Sherlock practically melted in John's hands, and it was beautiful.

"Now here's what's going to happen," he started, never letting up on abusing Sherlock's nipples, "tonight, Sherlock, I'm going to make you  _scream_."

Sherlock's hips jerked up, finding a weak relief as they reached up to rub against the front of John's jeans. John's hands slid from Sherlock's chest and it was only due to his admirable self-control that he held himself up, bracing his arms on either side of Sherlock's head. John let himself grind his hips for just a moment, kissing Sherlock as filthily as he wanted to, before moving out of range again, lying on Sherlock's side.

"If this is some sick form of revenge-" Sherlock gasped.

"What?" John questioned, biting down where Sherlock's shoulder met his neck.

"Don't stop," Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes against the wave of tenderness that swept over him, and kissed his way down Sherlock's chest, kissing the hipbones that protruded farther out than he would've liked, and nuzzled the crease by his thigh.

Sherlock widened his legs, and shifted side to side, impatient.

John let his teeth scrape against the tender skin in response, which didn't put Sherlock off so much as cause him to moan loader and grind upward.

John set his hands on Sherlock's hips and held him down in preparation for what he planned on doing.

He hooked Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and slid him up, probably scraping his back which was going to hurt like hell once he was coherent enough to care. Once he got Sherlock exactly where he wanted him, John released his shoulders, holding Sherlock's legs bent up.

He sat back for a moment just to look.

Sherlock growled at the ceiling and pulled his hair for lack of anything solid to grab hold of, and John was caught by an overwhelmingly possessive urge. He separated his legs further, and fit his body up Sherlock's own, until Sherlock was the one straddling him. He set his still-clothed chest against Sherlock's, and rubbed softly, knowing how it would overstimulate Sherlock's no doubt tender nipples. He smiled at the thought, and then schooled his face into a firm expression, bringing his hands up to interweave in Sherlock's hair. He pulled, forcing Sherlock's neck to arch. "Only I get to pull it. Yes?"

Sherlock gasped into the air, heavy and thick, and John watched his pupils dilate until only a rim of aquamarine was showing.

"Yes," he breathed. John released his hair, and Sherlock's hands and put then softly on his hair.

"You can hold on here."

John let him go, snaking back down, maintaining contact with his entire body down Sherlock's front.

He kept his face close, breathing Sherlock's musky scent in, nosing against his balls until he couldn't anymore without wanting to suck his dick, then mouthed his way down, further, further.

He licked a long line down Sherlock's rim, and blew a breath out. Sherlock's breath stuttered and his hands spasmed in John's hair. John laughed softly because  _fuck_ yes he'd been thinking about this forever, and the warm puff of air caused Sherlock's thighs to quiver.

John smiled into it, and pressed his lips down lightly, landing light kisses around his opening, giving Sherlock time to adjust to the idea, assuming he'd need it, even in his hazy state.

When Sherlock's fingers pressed John's head gently forward, John opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to trail against Sherlock's skin, tasting sweat and the sharp tang of arousal. He danced around for a bit, until Sherlock's hands were restlessly combing through his hair, somewhere between pushing him impossibly forward and just pulling.

John closed his eyes and pushed his tongue into Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned loudly, loud enough that John felt a rush of arousal that brought his attention back to his abandoned cock which he tried to ignore in favour of the thought that Mrs Hudson could be downstairs right at this moment and could hear them and fuck if that didn't make it better. He swept in, feeling Sherlock's muscles protest slightly before giving in, and allowing him in. He hummed and drew his head back, thrusting his head back in, laving his tongue over and over until Sherlock's hands were fisted in his hair and the beginning of a string of curses were being gasped out of his mouth.

Sherlock was writhing beneath him, hips thrusting uselessly, dying for contact. John just kept moving his mouth, and when Sherlock started mixing his name and the curses, releasing diatribes against his person, morals, and mental health, John felt himself grin against Sherlock's soft skin.

He withdrew his head and settled his eyes comfortably on Sherlock's cock, flushed red and leaking, propping against his heels to take off his jumper quickly, then moved to his trousers, making quick work of his pants, too, until he was completely unclothed, in contrast with Sherlock, who had never even gotten any of his clothes taken off in the first place. He looked back at Sherlock's face, still blissfully blanked out.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" he asked, reaching behind him so sift through his trousers for his wallet, taking out a condom to roll on.

Sherlock's eyes slowly drifted back into focus, taking in the condom with a mischievous glint, then moving lightly to John's face. His voice was hazy, like it was hard to get out. "I need you to tou-"

"No, Sherlock," John said, drawing himself back up, hovering over Sherlock carefully. "What do you  _need?"_

Sherlock's eyes closed as he tried to regain focus.

"Air."

"Very good," John rewarded him with a light touch to his thigh, tracing swirls closer and closer, but not just yet.

"I- I need water."

"Yes," John prompted, stroking the skin next to his cock, watching it twitch next to his hand. "And?"

"Food and sleep," Sherlock let out in a rush of air, pushing his hips toward John's hand.

John hummed in agreement, nudging Sherlock's head up to mouth at his neck again, not moving his hand any closer. "You don't seem to think that half the time."

Sherlock let out an impatient huff, and his hands clawed on John's hip, seemingly trying to decide if he could force them down.

John withdrew further in answer, and bit lightly at the space next to Sherlock's adam's apple.

"What else?"

"I need-"

John's hand brushed one of his balls and he instinctively drew closer.

"Yes?"

John lowered himself over Sherlock, pulling one of Sherlock's legs over his thigh, and nudging his cock at Sherlock's slick entrance.

"Need-" Sherlock gasped out.

John's hand hovered over Sherlock's straining cock. "What do you need?"

" _You,_ " Sherlock breathed.

John's hips moved almost of their own volition, pushing himself into Sherlock in one smooth motion, when he'd meant, really, to go much slower. His hand closed around Sherlock, and he started stroking him smoothly in time with his thrusts. Sherlock keened, using his hands on John's hips to pushing him in harder and faster, threatening John's hand's stability where it held him up by Sherlock's head. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on John's face, even when they lost the razor sharp focus they'd shortly regained, meeting him move for move, until his motions became uncoordinated, and his stomach tensed.

John hovered in the moment, looking down at Sherlock, at how his face was open and expressive and his eyes were glassed over with lust and how he'd just let John do what he wanted and everything  _everything_ about him.

Then he moved against Sherlock one last time, smoothing his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock was coming.

John held on just long enough for him to take in Sherlock's completely open, held thrown back, throat open as he let out a shout that was sure to alarm Mrs Hudson and maybe even the married ones next door before he felt himself tip over the edge, too, with barely any warning.

He couldn't see anything for a moment, just letting the echoes of Sherlock's cry lap over his consciousness before he was rushed back to the present, arm collapsing, body dropping directly onto Sherlock's.

John lay still for a moment, just taking in Sherlock's panting in time with his own before he forced himself to root around for a piece of clothing, pausing when he came into contact with his jumper. He winced at the thought of washing it, then decided to hell with it, and cleaned both himself and Sherlock off a bit, taking the condom off as well, and throwing them both in the bin by the door.

He felt his muscles stiffen, even now, and groaned.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock," he answered, already resigning himself to a sore back tomorrow, well, this morning. He looked up at Sherlock from where he lay next to him on the floor, and was surprised to find him tentatively meeting his eyes. Since when was Sherlock tentative? Ever?

"What about your date?"

John smiled at him. "I'd forgotten about that." He sat up a bit, laughing under his breath. "The thing is-"

"I understand, of course if you'd like to continue on with that ..arrangement. This could be seen as nothing more than heightened emotions and-" John looked over at Sherlock in amazement and found his face rearranged into a cool mask.

"What the hell, Sherlock. No. No, of course, not. No." John nearly tripped over himself trying to reassure Sherlock. " _Fuck_ no. I mean, unless you?"

Sherlock shook his head infinitesimally.

"Well, then. Yeah. Good. Right." John stopped, blowing out a breath, sitting up completely, mindless of how he still didn't have clothes on. "The thing is," he started again, "there wasn't ever actually a- there wasn't ever a date."

He ducked his head and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to drag some order back into it. "I was trying to pull one over on you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still not moving from his position on the floor. "You were trying to- trick me?"

John laughed nervously. "Yeah. Seems a bit daft now."

Sherlock's lips settled into a smirk. "A bit."

John got up, reaching a hand out to help Sherlock. "Yeah, well, it was amusing at the time, what with you being so bloody angry in the first place."

Sherlock ignored his hand. "You only convinced me because I was otherwise occupied."

John snorted, shaking his hand to get Sherlock's attention. "Yeah, sure, mate. I believe you."

Sherlock glared up at him, leaving John's hand hanging in the air.

"Is that what we are, then? Mates?"

John took his hand back, instead running it over his face. "I don't think so, no. We're more like-"

Sherlock looked at the ceiling. "Like?"

"I don't know. We're us, yeah?"

"Your powers of observation are as astounding as ever, John."

John nudged his toe against Sherlock's ribs just to see his squirm. "No, really. We're us," John repeated, trying to put all the weight he felt behind the words, all the things he couldn't define. "Is that good?"

Sherlock's eyes traced a reluctant path to John's. "I think so."

"Me, too," John finished, with a note of finality. "Now. I'm going to bed. Coming?"

Sherlock looked around him, seeming to finally realise he was, in fact, on the floor. "I don't know. I have some fond memories here."

John grinned, then turned toward the stairs.

"Suit yourself, Sherlock. Sure the floor will do a great job of keeping you," John paused at the first step, "warm."

When he heard footsteps trailing behind him, John didn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No gay detectives were harmed in the making of this section. Credit for that found here: http://faithfulreader.livejournal.com/13008.html


	8. Love, part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favourite to write (and consequently very long) because I love love and am inexplicably attached to these two morons. oh and also I made up basically all the medicinal commentary in here please don’t hate me I’m just very daft and lazy and that makes for a poorly written medical paper but I’m writing fanfic so I think you can bear with me.

_28 January 2012 23:33_  

Sherlock and John ran through the streets of London, and felt as much as heard their footsteps echo against the walls back to their ears. Their hearts pounded and their breaths came out in short gasps. John looked ahead at Sherlock, at his coat billowing behind him like a cape, and grinned.

“You’re - an idiot,” he shouted at him, gasping the words out between breaths, “told you - we should’ve checked for - people.”

“That only would’ve made them find us sooner!” Sherlock called back at him, and John could hear the smile in his voice. He wasn’t even breathing hard, the wanker.

John wheezed out a laugh because Sherlock was right, of course he was, and it was alright if he was being cocky for now, because they were way ahead of the gang members and if they could just make it to the end of the block and turn right, they’d be back on a main road, safe.

They were within three metres of the corner when a shot rang out, and a dark spot of liquid bloomed on Sherlock’s back like it did when John pricked his patients’ fingers, only much, much larger. Sherlock stumbled, and his coat whipped forward, carried by its own momentum, to cradle him as he fell to the ground.

John saw it all happen in slow motion, it felt like. Sherlock’s head hung back, and his eyes stared blankly at the sky. His hair was flung from his forehead, and he looked years younger. His arms spread-eagled, not cushioning his face or chest or knees one bit as they crash to the ground.

“Fuck.”

John ignored his initial instinct to run to Sherlock, and pulled out his gun as he turned his body sideways, to give them the smallest possible target to shoot at. He fired three times, and three bodies dropped to the ground. Two of them were still breathing if their shouts were anything to go by, but the man with a snake tattoo winding around his neck and a warm gun in his hand was dead.

John waited for two heartbeats to see if any of them would move, and when they didn’t, he gave in and jogged over to Sherlock, taking his phone out and dialling 999 on the way.

“Yes, a man’s been shot. I need an ambulance,” John listed his location and Sherlock’s injuries and he catalogued them himself. Recovery time was going to be a living hell. The bullet hadn’t hit any major arteries or organs, from the amount of bleeding, but Sherlock was going to have to stay in the hospital for at least two weeks. He was going to be a terror to the nurses and John’s mental wellbeing.

His face was a mess, with a five-centimetre gash over his eyebrow that desperately needed stitches, and a small scrape on his chin that was already scabbing over. His knees were probably completely bloody. Sherlock’s momentum must’ve carried him a good half-metre. John was about to try to turn his legs to the side to see, when Sherlock’s arms moved to form two rectangles as he tried to push off of the ground slowly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” John said, as he swept his hands from the inside of his wrists outward, so Sherlock’s arms collapsed into a bony heap again. “Stay still. Keep on your back; you have to preserve blood flow.” His heart was pounding, and he knew Sherlock’s would be, too. Bad news for blood loss.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” John said to himself, thinking back to his reservations.

“Well, obviously,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Oh, good,” John looked down at him, trying to smile, but it was difficult when he could see Sherlock blinking blood out of his eyes from where it was dripping from the cut on his forehead. “You’re still conscious.”

“Well not for long, if you’re going to be that boring. Stating the obvious again, John,” Sherlock said, a half smile spreading on his face, making the weak scab on his chin break again.

“Shut it, Sherlock. Don’t talk. The diaphragm muscles you’re moving-”

“Yes, I know. Believe it or not, I make a living off of this,” Sherlock choked out, spitting some blood out of his mouth half-heartedly. “I’m not the idiot you make me out to be on your blog.”

John rolled his eyes, and moved Sherlock’s hair back from his face, taking the blood from his forehead with it. “Always with the blog. You better be glad I love you, Sherlock, or I’d leave you lying here on the ground right now.” He barely paid attention to his words or the way Sherlock froze; he couldn't, not when he was so busy focussing on how fast the blood was soaking the coat now, and dripping off onto the sidewalk.

“John,” Sherlock started cautiously.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John reminded him under his breath. He could hear the sirens coming in the distance.

Surprisingly, Sherlock complied, and they sat in silence until the ambulance pulled up to them, and the paramedics came and lifted Sherlock gently onto a gurney.

It wasn’t until Sherlock was completely passed out and John was sitting by his side, trying to stay out of the paramedics’ way that he realised what he’d said.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” John whispered to himself for the second time that night.

* * *

_4 February 2012_ _12:09_

Sherlock was in a coma, a medically induced coma that he’d yet to come out of even though the steady stream of drugs that had caused it had ceased and the doctors said he should’ve woken up days ago. It had been a week. Because God forbid Sherlock do anything in a timely matter.

John stood outside Sherlock’s door as the doctor listed all the possible reasons why he hadn’t woken up yet and tuned her out instead of telling her he already knew because he was still trying to will Sherlock into waking up through pure willpower.

It still wasn’t working, and now the doctor was staring at him strangely.

“Er, sorry, what?” John asked, trying his best to look confused and extremely not guilty.

“I said, what we usually like to try now, is small things, and work our way up from there. But the larger the change in their situation, the larger the risk. Don’t worry, though, smaller ways work in a larger portion of these cases than you’d expect. Most things we try don’t even pose as a risk. Namely, asking a loved one to speak to the comatose patient.”

“Look, I don’t have his brother’s number-” John began, but the doctor put a calming hand on his arm.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said with a smile, “I think you should try? I don’t know. Usually, if someone getting chased by known gang members, the only people who stick around to help them are people who care.”

John narrowed his eyes. “How do you know _I_ wasn’t being chased?”

The doctor sobered. “Because you’re not on that hospital bed; he is.” She turned to go, but looked back and added, “We’ll try to contact his brother, but if you’d like to try, the water fountain’s down the hall in case your throat gets dry, and you know where the room is.”

John waited until she’d turned into another hallway because he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, then opened the door and walked toward Sherlock.

* * *

_14:24_

John still hadn’t spoken much.

He’d tried little phrases, like, “Mrs Hudson misses you,” and, “I still make two cups of tea,” but they’d fallen into empty air, sounding muffled to John’s ears.

“I feel like an idiot,” he said, loudly to counteract the stuffy quiet of the room. Sherlock did nothing.

“Right, of course you’d say that.” Because, really, he would. Even when awake, Sherlock would remain quiet because he _knew_ John felt stupid sometimes and he knew John knew he hated when John called himself an idiot. But he also knew it just happened sometimes, so Sherlock chose to ignore it, or other times, rarely, he would shut John up with a kiss before he could get the entire word out.

“I should’ve brought a book,” John muttered. “But then, you would insist I read nonfiction and I would be forced to read about blood splatter or something.” John looked over at Sherlock, a smile on his face to assure him he was teasing, but the smile froze when Sherlock’s lax face didn’t scrunch up in protest at John’s refusal to expand his mental horizons.

“Anyway,” John continued, like they were holding a conversation, “you should probably get up soon, you know. Or I will bring a book, but it’ll be Harry Potter and we’ll have a repeat of that entire Star Wars fiasco.” John held back a shudder when he remembered his one attempt at educating Sherlock in pop culture.

Sherlock lay there.

John paced.

“You know, I don’t even know what to talk about,” John grinned slightly, coming back to the bed, sitting in the chair beside it. “I don’t talk about much, I guess. What do we normally talk about? Cases? Or how our day went? I don’t even know.” He blew out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Okay. I can do this.”

John steepled his hands into a praying position, and interlaced his fingers when that reminded him too much of Sherlock.

“I’m going to tell you a story, Sherlock. And I hope you remember this if- _when_ you wake up and it’s stuck in your bloody mind palace forever because this is really hard for me, this sort of thing, and _something_ should show for my efforts. So. Right, yeah. Okay. Once-” John just barely stopped himself from saying ‘upon a time.’ He let out a puff of air. “Right. Once there was this army doctor. He went to war, and tried to help people, but really was just there to watch men die.” Flashes of gunshots and shouting shot across his mind. “Then he got shot and the army didn’t need him anymore, I guess. So he came home, and it all went downhill. He started limping and had to go to therapy and didn’t talk to his sister and lived in a horrible flat. But worst of all he was lonely. Then, on the twenty-ninth of January, he met another man who was just as lonely, even though he would probably deny it, and they went to dinner and moved in together and solved crimes. Well, the other man solved crimes. The doctor cleaned up his messes and made him tea and fell in love with him. And he kept it inside for a full year.”

John smiled even though he felt a bit like crying and looked down at Sherlock, and let his hands loosen and fall lightly onto the sheets over Sherlock’s chest, feeling the heartbeat just to reassure himself.

“And then one day they had a row, and the doctor went to work. He was angry, and sort of scared, I think, that the genius detective wouldn’t want him anymore because he complained about stupid things and cared too much. When he came home, though, the flat was clean and the detective was asleep on his bed. Like bloody Goldilocks or something. She’s a character from a fairy-tale, Sherlock,” John explained, because of course he wouldn’t know. “She fell asleep on someone else’s bed, too. Anyway, the doctor was mad, but it was okay, actually, because if the doctor couldn’t have him in his bed any other way, that would be enough. And the doctor kept living like he had before, angry at the world sometimes more than was okay because it gave him a- a fucking gift and then told him he couldn’t have it.”

John’s left hand wandered up to lightly touch the scab on Sherlock’s chin, then went back to his pulse on the dip of his collarbone because he couldn’t stay away from it for very long.

“But then, in September, the detective, he was being a right git, for the most part. I- The doctor thought he hated him? Or maybe had just gotten tired of him. Bored of the boring doctor and all that,” John smiled down at Sherlock pretending he wasn’t expressionless for just one second. “But he wasn't. And the doctor, I think he thought it was okay, because he got something- ah, I guess something beautiful out of those fucking horrible weeks. He finally got what he wanted. And then he couldn’t stop smiling for the couple days and it was horribly embarrassing at the surgery when he was late almost every morning for a week, but that was okay, too, because it was _worth_ it. Always worth it. They didn’t really talk about it, though. Because it was sort of like they’d been doing it for forever. It wasn’t crazy or love at first sight or anything and there wasn’t any sort of awkward lead up. It was just like before, only now sometimes the detective would sleep in the doctor’s room, when he decided to sleep. The doctor stopped having nightmares on those nights.”

John looked at Sherlock’s face, waiting. When nothing happened, he sighed and continued.

“And now it’s February. But the thing is, it’s been a week. And I’m pissed, Sherlock. Because the bloody stupid doctor was supposed to take the bloody stupid detective out for dinner because it was their bloody stupid anniversary!” John unclenched his fists because he was trying not to be mad at everything for letting this happen. His fingertips seek out the steady pulse again, to calm him down, John told himself because anger had always been easier to deal with than dependence. He took another breath before continuing.

“And we were supposed to go back. To Angelo’s. I made reservations,” he chuckled. “I made reservations at a place that always had our table free because I wanted everything to be perfect and I wanted to tell you I loved you at the spot I realised I did and then you got shot. You got shot and now it’s been a week and I forgot to call Angelo and he stayed open past closing and called me three times and I missed them because I was passed out in this exact chair. We didn’t have dinner.” John looked down at Sherlock and kissed his forehead. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He rested his forehead against Sherlock, perpendicular so he could speak right next to his ear.

“I was supposed to pull out your chair. The table was supposed to have a candle. We were supposed to share a meal. You were supposed to actually eat something. I was supposed to tell you I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered.

“I was supposed to see how you reacted. I don’t know if you’d freeze or if you’d smile or if you’d been paying attention to Star Wars and say ‘I know.’” John lifted his head and looked down at Sherlock. “You were supposed to say that you love me, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened.

* * *

_4 February 2012 13:54_

When the doctors finally left, and John was finally let back in, he rushed toward Sherlock, only to be stopped by the look on Sherlock’s face. He slowed his pace to a walk and approached the bed with caution.

“So,” he started with a grin, trying to infect Sherlock with one, too. “We end up here way too often.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained serious even as he smiled back. “Listen, John, before I got taken away-”

“Yeah, about that-”

“No, John.” Sherlock raised the arm with the IV in it, and the awkward bending of the thin line of tubing entranced John. “I need to say something.”

John felt his grin weaken and he opened his mouth again.

“John, please?” and John nodded because he could never say no when Sherlock asked.

“Now I know that, situations being what they were, that you might’ve said something you didn’t exactly mean,” Sherlock began to speed up, like he was afraid John would try to cut him off again. “And I understand that you can’t be held responsible for your actions or words, but I think you’re more worried about the words and I want you to know I won’t hold you to it and we can just move on like it didn’t happen and it was purely the influence of adrenaline and other chemicals you won’t want to talk about and it’s fine, it really is, so-”

Once John realised what Sherlock was actually saying after sifting through all the other words, he stepped forward quickly, and because he knew Sherlock hated to be interrupted by words, he kissed him, lightly. He drew back a few centimetres and looked at Sherlock, at his eyes that were wide open, trying to logic his way into a conclusion about what John was doing, and grinned.

“Shut up, Sherlock, yeah? Just let me get this out, because you’re only hearing it this once.”

He leant back, and sat in the chair next to the bed, pushing Sherlock’s chest down gently when he tried to sit up, but allowed Sherlock to turn his head and keep his sharp eyes trained on John because John was still revelling in the fact that they could now.

“Okay. So. Right, yeah, this is it, huh? In a hospital,” John looked down at his hands. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”

He stood up restlessly, and looked back down at Sherlock, and reaching out to cradle his head between his hands. For once, Sherlock didn’t give him a wolfish grin and try to incite a kiss. He just lay there, staring up at John like he was scared of what he would say.

John smiled down at him, trying to reassure him. “You are- You are very important to me. And you’re beautiful. Ah, no,” John said, stopping Sherlock’s would-be retort. “You are. You are beautiful. And, er, I care about you, obviously, yes. But more than that, I- I had a fucking speech written.” John glared at Sherlock. “I made reservations and I had a speech on fucking notecards and you- _you_ are supposed to smiling right now.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows came together and formed a wrinkle that John reached out subconsciously to smooth with his thumb.

“The point is, I- I love you, Sherlock, and I meant to say it, I did, but I _was_ scared but that is _not_ why I said it, but that it _is_ why you’re not allowed to get shot anymore and if you bring up adrenaline one more time, I’ll kill you.”

“Because it’s not a mistake,” John took a breath to try to steady his voice. “I love that you are the smartest person that I’ve ever met and even then, you avoid using the word restaurant because you can’t spell it and I love that you wear your coat even in the summer and I love that you treat Mrs Hudson like your second mum when you think no one’s looking and I love that you like Chinese more than Italian but you go to Angelo’s because you like the owner even if I’m the only one who eats there most of the time. I love you more than anything and I have since- since we went running through the bloody streets and I felt more alive than I had- than I ever had, I think.”

He inhaled slowly and looked at Sherlock’s hair because he couldn’t meet his eyes. “I was waiting to say it, too, you know. The right moment and all that. Because what sort of mental person just tells someone they love them like that? And even then, for a while, I was sure I’d never get to say it, but then you kissed me, and it was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to mess it up, and so I planned, but that turned out to be a mess and now,” John looked at Sherlock face, and what he saw made his heart sink lower than it’d been before Sherlock woke up.

“Well, now I’ve said it and I’m babbling. I babbling and I never babble and you’re looking at me like I’m a dog that you’re being forced to kick and I- I’ve got to _go_. I’ve got to go right now.”

John released Sherlock like he was on fire, and walked to the door quickly, waiting to be stopped by Sherlock telling him that he loved him, too, or just asking him to hold on one second, but it was quiet.

John walked out the door, with a stiff back and perfectly steady hands.

* * *

When John came back, they didn’t talk about it. He brought Sherlock tea, actual tea, not hospital sludge, and a case file from Lestrade. He listened to Sherlock spout off deductions, and wrote the important ones down in a notebook to bring back to the Yard. He brought Sherlock Harry Potter books just to see him roll his eyes, and then he caved and brought some nonfiction. John sat next to him while Sherlock whispered the life stories of all the nurses that passed by to him. They joked and laughed and it was awful. He left within an hour every time he visited.

* * *

They don’t talk about it. They’re good at that. John sometimes forgets he said it, until Sherlock comes downstairs in the morning after finally giving into sleep with his hair a complete mess and he wants to say it all over again. But he doesn’t. He makes Sherlock a breakfast that he won’t eat and waits until the next time Sherlock falls asleep so he can whisper it across the room onto deaf ears. It’s almost a whole month before he’s completely comfortable again, and then life goes on like before, for the most part.


	9. Love, part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write it so you wouldn't need it, exactly, but in case you're curious, translations can be found in the end notes.
> 
> Credit for the translations go to, respectively:
> 
> Turkish: tumblr user andewscott  
> French: tumblr user reichen-brook  
> Croatian: tumblr user heymycroft  
> Mandarin Chinese: tumblr user letsplaymvrder  
> German: tumblr user thewomvn  
> Russian: tumblr user ughmartinfreeman  
> Finnish: tumblr user mrsexhimself

_11 March 2012 8:28_  

Sherlock stomped up the stairs, and John followed, treading carefully.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” John started, his voice echoing up to Sherlock’s ears. “You can’t know everything, and no one _actually_ speaks Turkish. I mean, except for Turks.”

Sherlock looked back at John, eyes narrowed, before walking through the door. “Ne hakkında konuştuklarını bilmem lazımdı.”

“Oh, no. No, no. Don’t start that, Sherlock. If you start speaking in another language for an entire week or something I’ll go absolutely mental. I can’t understand you and it’s just bloody annoying if I’m being honest, and-”

“Evet. Bu harika bir fikir, John. Zaten çalışıyor olmam lazımdı. Bana cevap veremeyecek olman ne kadar kötü. Bu şekilde kabiliyetimin sadece bir kısmını test edebilirim.”

“That’s it,” John threw his hands up into the air. “I give up. I’m haven’t slept all night and you’re speaking an entirely different language and a Turkish crime lord just beat me in a game of poker. I quit!” He laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and let his hand fall back at his sides.

“Ama biriyle çalışmaya ihtiyacım var.”

John looked at Sherlock. “You know, right, that I. Cannot. Understand. You? Because I can’t. So I am going to walk up to my bedroom, and sleep until this makes sense. And you,” he said, brandishing his finger at Sherlock like a weapon, “are not allowed in until you start speaking English again. Goodnight. Er, morning.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. John gave up on an answer and started up the steps. He missed the furrowed brow and twisted mouth as they flitted across Sherlock’s face when comprehension dawned on him. Then a grin lit up Sherlock’s face at the freedom he’d been granted, and he called softly after John, as if afraid he’d understand it.

“Sana deliler gibi aşığım.”

“You’re an idiot,” John’s voice travelled back down the stairs faintly.

And it was almost enough.

* * *

_12 March 2012 6:01_

John rubbed his eyes, and straightened his neck, wincing as he realised he definitely shouldn’t have fallen asleep with his head craned that way, but all the programmes on at two in the morning had been insufferably boring and his sleep scheduled was officially fucked.

His arms felt empty, the sort of empty that meant he was holding something before he’d fallen asleep. Sherlock.

“Sherlock?”

He heard some crashing in the kitchen, and he sprung up quickly, ignoring the aching in his stiff legs. Shit. If Sherlock had somehow gotten one of his experiments to explode again, he wasn’t sure he could make Mrs Hudson forgive them a second time.

He wove his way through Sherlock’s post-case mess that he was going to have to tidy up later, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, mouth open.

Because Sherlock was …making tea?

“Ah, John,” Sherlock sounded strained, and John stepped forward to help him, but Sherlock held up a hand. “Non, ça va.” He held his arm carefully behind his back, shooting a winning grin at John. “Bonjour.”

John stifled an eye roll. Still at the languages thing. Switched, though, from the sound of it. “Right. Good morning, Sherlock. What language is it today?” John said, trying to casually take a look at what was behind Sherlock’s back.

“Français,” Sherlock let out a puff of air that John thought was maybe supposed to be a laugh. “Je pense que même toi tu devrais comprendre. Tu devrais te préparer à partir, tu as du travail.” Sherlock gestured with one hand wildly toward the door.

John edged toward him, taking in the kettle in the sink, the splash of water on the counter. “French. Nice. I’ve sort of got a thing for French.” He shot Sherlock a grin, coming just a bit closer, whispering in his ear. “It’s a bit sexy, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and John lamented the wasted opportunity. He used his proximity to snake his arm around Sherlock’s waist, and grab his upper arm, bringing it between them carefully.

“Ce n’est rien, ça va” Sherlock stammered. “C’est juste cette stupide bouilloire, ma main a glissé.”

“You know I can’t understand anything you say, you know,” John answered absentmindedly, examining the bright pink burn on Sherlock’s hand. “This isn’t that bad. You should be fine.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “C’est ce que j’ai dit.”

“You know what?” John looked up at him, determined. “I don’t care. We’re going to take care of it right now, or you’ll probably forget about it and not do anything with it and it’ll take forever to heal and no.”

Sherlock looked about to protest, eyes on the clock on the wall, but he shut his mouth, and let John lead him out of the kitchen.

* * *

_6:25_  

“Stay still would you?” John kept a firm grip on Sherlock wrist, applying burn medication to the tight skin of Sherlock’s hand. “We could’ve been done ages ago if you’d just stop moving. Next time, ask me to make tea, yeah?”

Sherlock stopped talking in a tone that John assumed meant complaining, and stilled.

“Why’d you try to make tea, anyway?” John asked, mostly to distract Sherlock from the last little section he had left to medicate.

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly jumped to the floor. “Tu avais l'air fatigué, je pensais- je pensais que je pourrais aider un peu.”

“Mmmm,” John murmured, thinking maybe this is how dentists felt. He inspected Sherlock’s hand for any spots he may have missed, then nodded. “Done.” He kissed Sherlock’s unscathed palm. “And a kiss in case the medicine doesn’t work.” He smiled at Sherlock, and blinked at the utterly fond look Sherlock was giving him.

Sherlock leant forward, and planted a gentle kiss on John’s cheek, keeping his mouth next to John’s ear for a moment. “Je t’aime.”

John gently pushed him back, standing up and kissing him until Sherlock’s head thunked back against the wall.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He drew back, and felt a modicum of regret flit through him. “But no matter how much French you say, I’ve got work.” He kissed Sherlock again before shoving off the wall beside his head to stand up straight.

He smiled at Sherlock, turning to leave. “You’ve got to tell me what that meant when you decide to join the English-speaking population.”

* * *

_13 March 2012 13:13_  

Lestrade groaned and rubbed his face, sighing into his hands heavily. John looked over at him in sympathy, but remained in his spot beside Sherlock. The arguing was grating on his nerves, but he tried to remain objective. No one had any idea what Sherlock was saying. Except Donovan. She’d apparently spent a term studying abroad in Croatia, and luck had it that that was the language of the day. Of course, luck probably had nothing to do with it, and Sherlock probably knew Sally was fluent by the way she curled her hair or something. But the conversation was still mostly unintelligible. Sally, at least, was doing them the courtesy of speaking in English. However, no matter the language barrier, it was clear that the two were having something of a spat. There was no getting out of situations like this until Sally gave up and Sherlock took it as a victory.

“Bože, ponašaš se gluplje nego inače,” Sherlock scoffed, throwing the evidence back in Sally’s face. “Samo pogledaj! Rub trenirke je bio izmijenjen tri različita puta.” Sherlock held three fingers up and held then demonstratively in front of her face while throwing the piece of clothing loosely on the table, hem in plain sight.

Sally laughed derisively. “So what if it’s been mended? Oh, right. Because someone’s attached to a jumper, their mother must’ve killed them. So sorry about not seeing that earlier.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Sarkazam,” he muttered, then raised his voice to the almost-shout he’d been maintaining for the past fifteen minutes. “Ne, ti totalni idiote. Cura je očito bila ponovno odjevena.” Sherlock motioned wildly to the autopsy photos, holding the one that focussed on her shoulder up triumphantly, forcing it into Sally’s hands with the jumper. “Dislocirano rame kad je netko pokušavao staviti trenirku na curu dok je bila u nesvjesti, ne posve mrtva, sudeći po mjeri od modrica."

She squinted at the photos, then her eyes widened. “Someone changed her clothes.”

“Da, naravno. To je što sam uravo rekao. Tako. Motivacija je očito sentiment.”

Sally narrowed her eyes. “What would _you_ know about sentiment?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he stepped back. Hurt flashed across his face so quickly everyone seemed to miss it, but John saw it, and quietly stepped forward. “Tko god ju je zatvorio je želio obnoviti nešto što su izgubili. Nešto što su vezani na. Ta zapanjujuća grozota ukazuje na majčin dar, a cura je nedavno pobjegla. Svi znakovi upućuju na prisilnom povratku nakon čega slijedi eskalacija emocija, što je dovelo do javnog ubojstva,” Sherlock spouted off, and then rushed out of the room, throwing the photograph onto the table angrily and stepping away from John.

Sally looked shocked for a second, staring at the place Sherlock had been seconds earlier, and then collapsed into the chair, apparently dismissing it. “She’d run away, yeah?” she asked, looking at Lestrade vaguely, not even waiting for his nod. Because they all knew she had. Sally blew out a breath. “The mother. Right.” She looked over the crime scene photos, running her hands lightly over the jumper. “Fuck.” She stiffened for a moment, sending Lestrade an apologetic look. “Sorry, sir. It’s just-”

“’S fine, Donovan,” Lestrade answered, shooing her apology away. “You were the only one who knew what the hell he was saying, anyway, so I think you’re allowed a million fucking curse words whenever you want.” He grinned at her in thanks.

She smiled in return, then rose to go. “Should probably go get her, then. The mum.”

“Yeah, get the rest of the team. I’ll catch up in a minute,” Lestrade answered, nodding levelly at her. When she left the room, Lestrade turned abruptly, almost bumping into John where he’d been about to head after Sherlock. He backed up a step, and then reached out and rested a hand heavily on John’s shoulder. “Sorry about that. She doesn’t even realise it bothers him half the time, I think. But, er, I am sorry.” Lestrade looked at the ground, uncomfortable. “You should go after him.”

John stared at Lestrade, torn between grateful that he’d noticed and cared at all, angry that he hadn’t gotten after Donovan, and a sense of camaraderie as the only two people apparently in the entire world that knew Sherlock wasn’t as indestructible as he would have the world believe.

Instead of voicing any of this, however, John simply nodded, then headed out after Sherlock.

* * *

_13:29_  

“So,” John started, after having found Sherlock at the entrance of the Yard, presumably waiting for him to catch up.

“Nemoj,” Sherlock said quietly, cutting whatever John was planning on saying off.

“Okay.” John looked up at Sherlock as he scanned the streets looking for a cab.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the cars pass, splashing rainwater up onto the kerb. John allowed for thirty seconds of Sherlock’s restlessness pressing down on his shoulders, his mind, his chest. Then he turned, away from Sherlock, looking down the street at the other people going about their lives. He spoke softly, because he knew Sherlock could hear him even if he whispered in a room full of people.

“You’re brilliant, you know.”

“Da.” Sherlock answered just as quietly, as if afraid to acknowledge it.

“But you’re also extraordinarily stupid sometimes.”

John felt rather than heard Sherlock turn to him incredulously.

“Donovan’s not always right, as you love to point out,” he continued. “But you choose _now_ to take her at her word?”

“John-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said amiably, finally turning back around to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re brilliant and stupid and incredible and possibly the most empathetic, kindest human being I’ve ever met. So just don’t.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but then nodded infinitesimally, springing into action to walk across the street where a cab had been waiting. John laughed softly, shaking his head, and followed, watching the ground for puddles. He was much too bemused and preoccupied to notice the aching smile that Sherlock gave him, to notice the way Sherlock splashed right into the largest puddle because he was too busy looking at him, to notice the softly uttered, “Volim te.”

* * *

_14 March 2012 14:30_  

The doorbell rang. Sherlock groaned and shut his eyes. And didn’t move.

“Right, so I’ll just get that, then.” John looked at Sherlock for one sign that he’d heard, but the detective lay perfectly still.

“Of course, of course. You can’t be arsed to do anything,” John grumbled, going down the stairs.

“你以为我没听见?” Sherlock called and John chose to not dignify that with an answer.

He opened the door, and suppressed the urge to shut it right up again. “Ah. Mycroft. Hello.”

“Pleasure, as always,” Mycroft answered, smirking at John. No doubt smugly deducing everything John had been up since the previous week.

“So what’re you here for?” John asked as they headed up the stairs, cringing internally at how rude it sounded. Sherlock was rubbing off on him.

Mycroft laughed softly. “My brother seems to be contagious,” he said, smoothly sidestepping the question while making John feel guilty and reading his mind. A true diplomat, to the core.

“Sorry. Sort of.” John grinned cheekily back at him, opening the door to 221B. “Sherlock would probably be proud.”

“Yes, I imagine he would,” Mycroft said, and almost anyone else would’ve missed the slight glint of humour in his eyes.

Sherlock sat up, on edge at how well John and Mycroft were getting on, like he always was. Mycroft tapped his fingers lightly on his umbrella, and Sherlock tensed even more.

“你找我干什么?” Sherlock said, glaring at his brother. His hand reached up of its own accord to scratch the back of his neck, and Mycroft’s smirk grew into a condescending smile.

“Mother’s birthday, brother dear,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Coming up. Are you going?”

“你要是去的话，我才不去呢。” Sherlock sniffed, folding his arms and leaning back into the couch.

“Always the child,” Mycroft said, eyebrows raised pointedly, more to John than anyone else.

John raised his hands in defence. “Oh, no. Not involving me.”

“Of course it involves you,” Mycroft said, leaving the ‘obviously’ hanging in the air. “You’ll be coming, too, of course. Mummy will want to meet Sherlock’s-”

Sherlock sat up again as quick as lightning, eyes blowing open alarmingly. “你闭嘴！他还不知道- 我没-”

Mycroft’s smile dropped and he wrinkled his nose. “天啊你真没用。你比去即刻得告诉他。” Mycroft shot back, something like disgust settling on his face.

“Don’t you start, too,” John said, as close to pleading as he was likely to come. “I thought you just said I was involved.”

Mycroft smiled tolerantly at him, almost pityingly, John thought. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Unfortunately, my complete idiot of a brother 还没有跟他的最好的朋友他爱上他了, so evidently I was wrong.”

Sherlock relaxed a bit, seeing Mycroft’s ability to keep a secret wasn’t affected by how personal or frustrating the matter was to him. “我会告诉他的。我一定会。再过一会儿。我有两个月的时间呢。”

“Yes, I’m sure, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned to the door, leaving without having even sat down.

“What, no tea?” John asked sardonically, holding the door open.

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. “I don’t think I could quite stomach it at the moment.”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “真的？我很怀疑。”

John just let him walk out, watching him disappear down the stairs before turning back to Sherlock. “What on earth was he going on about?”

Sherlock gave him a look that was almost heartbreakingly helpless. John tried to smile at him, but that just made the look worse. He shifted uncertainly.

“I’ll just make us something to eat, yeah?”

“我爱你。”

“Yeah, me, too,” John answered absently, and Sherlock made a choked noise that John pretended like he didn’t hear.

* * *

_15 March 2012 7:23_  

“Okay, I’m going!” John called to Sherlock, hoping it reached the bedroom where Sherlock was still sleepily rousing after passing out for an entire night for once. Of course, he’d been due for it, after being awake for, by John’s estimate, about two days.

He was almost out the door when he heard a rumbling, “Ich liebe dich,” from upstairs.

* * *

_10:11_  

John put his phone to his ear and started talking immediately after the ringing stopped, putting the surprise over Sherlock actually answering the phone aside.

“Okay. Don’t talk. If I here one more foreign word this week I will explode. So. This morning before I left I forgot to tell you that Lestrade called with a case. A small one, so he said you should be finished by this evening? I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly. Sorry. I got in late, so I just forgot. But anyway, yeah, okay- Sherlock are you getting this? Because you haven’t cut me off yet. Should I be worr-”

“Ich dachte du willstnicht , dass ich rede?”

John smiled despite himself. “And there it is. Go call Lestrade, okay? I’ve got to go, I don’t think they’ll believe I’ve just gone to restroom for much longer. See you tonight?”

“Ja. Heute Nacht. Ich liebe dich.”

John opened the door to back into the hallway, listening to the click of Sherlock hanging up without waiting for a response. As usual.

“Yeah. Bye, Sherlock.”

* * *

_17:23_

John walked into the flat, and groaned. “’m home!” he called through the doorway of the kitchen where he could hear Sherlock moving things around. “S’pose it’s too much to hope you’re making dinner?” 

He heard a snort, and nodded in response, but then realised Sherlock couldn’t see him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Sherlock walked back into the main room, and let his eyes roam over John. “Harter Tag. Lang dazu. Ein unheilbarer Fall and 2 mit gebrochenen Knochen, einer davon ein Kind. Eine Krankenschwester hat mit dir geflirtet and du musstest in deinem Büro essen weil es dir zu unangenehm wurde. Du bist müde. Du solltest dich hinlegen, ich werde was zu Essen bestellen.”

John looked over at Sherlock. “Right, of course. I mean, I’ve no idea what you said. But you’re always right, aren’t you?” He gave Sherlock a wry grin.

Sherlock’s smile echoed his own. “Ja.” He picked up a phone, and dialled their favourite takeout. When the man answered, though, his face twisted. He looked at the phone with a troubled expression, and John could here the tinny, “Hello? Hello?” from the speakers.

John stood up and snatched the phone from Sherlock, covering the mouthpiece. “You’re so bloody stupid. You’re going to forget how to speak English, at this rate,” he hissed with a reluctant smile as he raised the phone to his ear. “Yeah. Hello? Yeah, sorry about that. Dropped the stupid phone. Yeah. What we usually get. Er, could we have extra fried rice?” Sherlock rewarded that with a smile, and John rolled his eyes, but smiled back. “Yeah. That’s it. Delivery. Yeah. Ta. Bye.”

John hung the phone up, and sent Sherlock a fondly irritated look. “I can’t believe I had to do that. You’re so stubborn.”

Sherlock just smiled. “Ich liebe dich, John.”

John stopped on his way back the couch, turning back to Sherlock. “What’s that mean, anyway? Ich liebe dich? You’ve said that more today than anything else, I think. Not like you to be repetitive, is it. What is it?”

Sherlock just watched him, a desperate, panicked look in his eyes.

John rolled his eyes, and grabbed a pen and pad of paper lying on the table. He held it out to Sherlock, “Here. Please?”

Sherlock didn’t move, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

John felt the simmering frustration from the entire week grow and overwhelm him. He slammed them back down. “Fine.” He walked past Sherlock, not noticing the tiny movement Sherlock made, as if to latch onto John’s wrist. He headed up to their bedroom to change from work. “Have fun with your fucking languages.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and running one hand through his hair, and he let John go.

* * *

_19:03_  

Sherlock brought some eggrolls up on a plate to John, since he hadn’t come down for the food, only to find him asleep, lying haphazardly across the mattress.

He smiled down at John, and kissed his forehead lightly, backing away softly when he stirred. He set the plate down on the bedside table, hoping John would take the apology.

Sherlock stood for a second, just watching how John was completely still, breathing deeply, sleeping as calmly as he did only when he was exhausted. He felt a lump rise in his throat for some inexplicable reason, and let out a shaky breath.

“Gott steh mir bei, Ich liebe dich.”

He turned to leave, and one of John’s eyes slipped open.

* * *

_16 March 2012 9:54_  

John opened the door to his examination room, and paused. There was a steaming cup of coffee and a single rose on his desk. He crept forward, and gently took the flower between two fingers.

This was ridiculous. Must have been a mistake. There was a fucking _rose_ for god’s sake. John was not a teenage girl. But-

He lifted the coffee up, sniffing the aroma coming off in waves lightly. One cream, two sugars. Exactly how he prepared it. And there was only one person who knew how he took his coffee.

John narrowed his eyes, and backed out of the room slowly. He’d only been gone for about five minutes, trying to get the stupid coffee maker in the lounge to work, to no avail. There was no way someone could have snuck in here. But if anyone could’ve done it, it would’ve been Sherlock.

He walked back to his desk, settling down to at least drink, not even trying to figure how Sherlock slipped in and out without anyone noticing. He closed his eyes and let the warm liquid wake him up, and opened his eyes fully for the first time that morning.

There was a note right in front of him.

There was no way.

John sprang up, and looked through his minimal examination room quickly, then sprinted out the door, trying to catch a glimpse of a whipping coattail or dark hair.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was always very careful about talking to John after they’d fought, but this was crazy.

He lifted the note, unfolding it from its neat four-sections.

He didn’t understand any of it, but he read over it, anyway.

_Джон. Я сожалею о том, что произошло прошлой ночью. Я не мог тебе признаться, также как и не могу сейчас. Но я это сделаю. Однажды я подойду прямо к тебе, посмотрю тебе в глаза и скажу что люблю тебя. Но не сегодня. Не до тех пор пока я не буду уверен, что ты не покинешь меня._

_–ШХ_

John threw it lightly back onto the desk, and turned to walk out to fetch his next patient. His break was over. He paused in the threshold and tried to will himself to keep walking, but he eventually caved and turned back. He snatched the note up, and opened a drawer, setting the note gently in, next to the toy plastic skull and post-it that listed all his patients for the day’s symptoms and diagnoses from last time. He slid the door shut, and grabbed the rose, weaving it in between a display skeleton’s ribs.

John smiled at it, and leant forward just enough to catch some of its scent.

* * *

_17 March 2012 10:11 (St. Patrick’s Day because why not)_  

“Morning,” John mumbled to Sherlock as he came back into the flat, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. “God. How’re you up? Actually, don’t answer that. That was rhetorical, yeah, just don’t-,” John’s gaze was caught by a pile of fabric right outside the door. “Wait, why’s your coat on the floor?”

“John, minä vannon. Sinä siirsit sitä taas. Rakastan sinua, mutta jos siirrät sitä enää kertaakaan tulen hulluksi.”

John ignored the sound of the deep baritone shaping the foreign words, and looked to the ceiling for guidance. “Oh, _you’re_ going to go crazy? If you’d just stop moving the stupid coat rack back, I’d stop moving it _back_ back and then it would stop moving at all. Or better yet, you could just stop flinging your coat in the general direction of the rack, hoping it’s in the right spot.”

Sherlock’s step stuttered right inside the door. “John?”

“Oh, you starting speaking English again,” John raised his eyebrows, then shook his head, back to the matter at hand, “If you start talking about feng shui one more time, I swear I’ll- You don’t even believe in it!” He walked to the kitchen grabbing a tea bag out of the tin with jerky movements. “I told you. I bump into it nearly every time I come in if we leave it where you want it.”

Sherlock cautiously followed John through the main room. “John.”

“Oh, what is it?” John narrowed his eyes and swept his head around.

“John, did you understand what I said?”

John’s hands paused over the kettle. “Er, _yeah_. Would’ve been more appropriate to speak Irish though, yeah?”

Sherlock stood perfectly still as John resumed making tea. The kettle clicked and it echoed around the kitchen. John stewed in the silence, and turned, putting bread in the toaster and getting the jam out of the fridge.

“So about what I said-”

“Yeah, you’re still wrong, no matter what language. Coat rack’s not moving.” John picked the kettle back up, and filled it with water.

“No, I meant about the other thing I said,” Sherlock said carefully.

John went back over everything Sherlock said. _John, minä vannon. Sinä siirsit sitä taas. Rakastan sin-_ John felt the blood drain out of his face. “Oh, right.”

“John, it’s fine. I, er, well, I meant it, and it’s alright if you don’t exactly feel the same way-”

John held up a hand to head off Sherlock’s barrage of empty reassurance with a disbelieving expression on his face. _“What?_ You are, of course, _joking_ , right? Because I think I remember it was _me_ making a complete idiot of myself in front of you in the middle of the damn hospital and then when I was so embarrassed I tried to leave, you didn’t even stop me!”

Sherlock stiffened. “Well, you were obviously uncomfortable-”

“Because I thought _you_ didn’t love me!”

“-so I let you leave. Because you looked like you were regretting saying anything.”

“Because _you_ looked like _you_ were regretting me saying anything.”

“Because you were uncomfortable!”

“Because you looked like-” John shut his mouth, realising they could go around all day blaming each other for the last month. He took a deep breath, and held it until his vision started to go black, and then let it out quickly. “So,” he said, realisation slowly making him warm from the inside out. “You love me?”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock looked down at his feet, which was difficult because during their argument, he’d inched closer to John until they were less than an arm’s length away. “But you love me, too, so just stop looking like-”

John cut him off, gripping his head and pulling him down for the sort of kiss he’d been holding back for the past thirty-six days, trying to put everything he’d not been saying into it. He let his fingers rake through his hair, making it as mussed as his own this early in the morning. And although John’s air was cut off, it felt like he could finally breathe again. He eventually gave up the struggle against his own body, and drew back, feeling all the tension slowly leak down from his shoulders and dissipate into the air. “Like what?” John smiled. “Like the man I love just _finally_ told me he loves me, too?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

John laughed and let him go even though he actually wanted to grab Sherlock’s wrist and force him upstairs. It was never a good idea to try to seduce him while he was upset, as John had found out in the early stages of their relationship, which was surprising because Sherlock was always rather enthusiastic about sex and unsurprising because the rest of the world liked or at least allowed it so of course Sherlock wouldn’t. He set the kettle back on the stove, manoeuvring around Sherlock in the small space. “Well, I can’t stop it, so you’ll have to deal.”

Sherlock turned around to face John again, and narrowed his eyes further, examining John’s face. “You understood me.”

John avoided the obvious, unspoken question and watched bubbles form at the bottom of the water. “Thought we’d established that.”

“How did you miss the French, but not the-"

John kept his peripherals trained on Sherlock, waiting for understanding to dawn on his face.

“Of course. Early childhood friend, through high school, but you don’t talk anymore. Lost contact when he, no, _she_ moved away. Back to Finland,” Sherlock practically sang, then he breathed in, closing his eyes. John scoffed at the familiar ‘I’ve got it’ expression and turned further away. He opened them and looked at, John, eyes sharpened. “I knew it.”

John let out a short laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

“Fairly obvious. You-”

“You didn’t know.” John cut him off, grinning. “I did get a medical degree, so even though you tend to think so, I’m not an idiot.”

“Yes, you are, but don’t be like that. Almost everyone is,” Sherlock smiled back, for once not pushing the point.

John laughed at the memory, and turned back to the toaster to put jam on the toast that popped up. “An idiot that speaks Welsh.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled, but John missed it, because he was trying to spread the jam evenly. “Speaking of that, what did you mean about Irish, anyway?”

John finally looked up from his toast. “Sherlock. You’re missing it again.”

“Oh, is this one of those things?” Sherlock’s confused melded into dismissal, and John took it as a sign he was done pouting.

“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, for god’s sake. Honestly.” John shook his head, because no matter how many times this happened, he was still amazed. His toast halted halfway to his mouth and dropped back onto the plate. He scanned Sherlock quickly, and then shot him a grin, edging around the counter toward him.

“And you’re not wearing green.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ne hakkında konuştuklarını bilmem lazımdı. > I should've known what they were talking about.  
> Evet. Bu harika bir fikir, John. Zaten çalışıyor olmam lazımdı. Bana cevap veremeyecek olman ne kadar kötü. Bu şekilde kabiliyetimin sadece bir kısmını test edebilirim. > Yes. That’s a great idea, John. I should’ve been practising, anyway. It’s unfortunate that you won’t be able to answer. I can only test part of my ability this way.  
> Ama biriyle çalışmaya ihtiyacım var. > But I need someone to practise on.  
> Sana deliler gibi aşığım. > I'm madly in love with you.  
> -  
> Non, ça va. > No, I'm fine.  
> Bonjour. > Good morning.  
> Français > French.  
> Je pense que même toi tu devrais comprendre. Tu devrais te préparer à partir, tu as du travail. > I think even you should understand. You should get ready to leave; you've work.  
> Ce n’est rien, ça va > It's nothing; I'm fine.  
> C’est juste cette stupide bouilloire, ma main a glissé. > It's just this stupid kettle, my hand slipped.  
> C’est ce que j’ai dit. > That's what I said.  
> Tu avais l'air fatigué, je pensais- je pensais que je pourrais aider un peu. > You were tired, I thought- I thought I could help a bit.  
> Je t’aime. > I love you.  
> -  
> Bože, ponašaš se gluplje nego inače > God, you're acting even thicker than usual.  
> Samo pogledaj! Rub trenirke je bio izmijenjen tri različita puta > Just look! The hem of the jumper has been mended over three different times.  
> Sarkazam > Sarcasm.  
> Ne, ti totalni idiote. Cura je očito bila ponovno odjevena. > No, you complete idiot. The girl was redressed obviously.  
> Dislocirano rame kad je netko pokušavao staviti trenirku na curu dok je bila u nesvjesti, ne posve mrtva, sudeći po mjeri od modrica. > Shoulder dislocated from someone trying to put the jumper on while the girl was unconscious, not quite dead, from the extent of the bruising.  
> Da, naravno. To je što sam uravo rekao. Tako. Motivacija je očito sentiment. > Yes, of course. That's what I just said. So. The motivation is obviously sentiment.  
> Tko god ju je zatvorio je želio obnoviti nešto što su izgubili. Nešto što su vezani na. Ta zapanjujuća grozota ukazuje na majčin dar, a cura je nedavno pobjegla. Svi znakovi upućuju na prisilnom povratku nakon čega slijedi eskalacija emocija, što je dovelo do javnog ubojstva. > Whoever imprisoned her wanted to recreate something they lost. Something they’re attached to. The stunning hideousness of it points to a maternal gift, and the girl had recently run away. All signs point to a forced return followed by an escalation of emotions, leading to blatant manslaughter.  
> Nemoj. > Don't.  
> Da. > Yes.  
> Volim te. > I love you.  
> -  
> 你以为我没听见 > You think I didn't hear that?  
> 你找我干什么 > What do you want?  
> 你要是去的话，我才不去呢。> If you're going, I'm not going.  
> 你闭嘴！他还不知道- 我没- > Shut up! He doesn't know yet- I haven't-  
> 天啊你真没用。你比去即刻得告诉他。> God, you're useless. You have to tell him immediately.  
> 还没有跟他的最好的朋友他爱上他了 > hasn't yet told his best friend he's fallen in love with him  
> 我会告诉他的。我一定会。再过一会儿。我有两个月的时间呢。> I will tell him. I definitely will. Just after a while. I have two month's time.  
> 真的？我很怀疑。> Really? I doubt it.  
> 我爱你。> I love you.  
> -  
> Ich liebe dich. > I love you.  
> Ich dachte du willstnicht , dass ich rede? > I thought you said not to talk?  
> Ja. Heute Nacht. Ich liebe dich. > Yes. Tonight. I love you.  
> Harter Tag. Lang dazu. Ein unheilbarer Fall and 2 mit gebrochenen Knochen, einer davon ein Kind. Eine Krankenschwester hat mit dir geflirtet and du musstest in deinem Büro essen weil es dir zu unangenehm wurde. Du bist müde. Du solltest dich hinlegen, ich werde was zu Essen bestellen. > Hard day. Long. One terminal case, and two broken bones, and one of them was a child. A nurse flirted with you at lunch, and you had to eat in your office because you were uncomfortable. You’re tired. You should rest. I’ll order takeout.  
> Ja. > Yes.  
> Gott steh mir bei, Ich liebe dich. > God help me, I love you.  
> -  
> Джон. Я сожалею о том, что произошло прошлой ночью. Я не мог тебе признаться, также как и не могу сейчас. Но я это сделаю. Однажды я подойду прямо к тебе, посмотрю тебе в глаза и скажу что люблю тебя. Но не сегодня. Не до тех пор пока я не буду уверен, что ты не покинешь меня.  
> \- ШХ  
> John. I’m sorry about what happened last night. I couldn’t tell you, like I can’t tell you today. But I will do it. One day I’ll walk right up to you and look you in the eyes and tell you I love you. But not today. Not until I know you won’t leave me.  
> –SH  
> -  
> John, minä vannon. Sinä siirsit sitä taas. Rakastan sinua, mutta jos siirrät sitä enää kertaakaan tulen hulluksi. > John, I swear. You moved it again. I love you, but if you do this one more time I’m going to go insane.


	10. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's view of the first chapter 'After.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sad.
> 
> p.s. you may want to reread the first chapter for the letter.

_15 June, 2012 15:06_

The last time John made Sherlock tea, was precisely twenty-seven hours previously. Sherlock drank every last swallow, not because he knew it was the last, but because he was parched and hungry and tea would have to do. He’d complained to John that it was too hot, told him it’d burnt his tongue even though it hadn’t, just to see the flash of something exciting behind John’s calm brown eyes.

The last time Sherlock can remember John telling him he loves him, Sherlock doesn’t say it back. He scoffs, and shoots John a look, because he knows John is playing dirty and he doesn’t _want_ to go see his parents even if it is his mother’s birthday and he’s just gotten an interesting case and Mycroft will be there with his snobbish remarks and knowing smirks. It was May 7th. Sherlock gave in and went eventually, anyway.

The last time John defends him, Sherlock grins at the warmth blooming in his chest, even as he regrets having John be part of this more than he already is. The Chief Superintendent certainly had it coming, though. His co-workers would be grateful for the story, at least.

The last time John laughs because of Sherlock, was when he'd made an offhand comment, the sort that he didn't realise was funny until the huff of air escaped John's lips, like a secret, and he'd wanted to capture it with his own.

The last time John kissed Sherlock, he’d gasped. His lips felt like they were going to bruise, and he felt John’s breath fan out across his face afterwards. It was freezing outside and John was unbearably warm and angry with him, angry that Sherlock had put himself in danger again. The kiss was a punishment that felt like a gift, and Sherlock had smiled weakly in response to the rough, “Never again,” that John had whispered.

The last time John had yelled at him, he’d been called a machine, but that didn’t explain the ache in his chest when John stormed out, even though it was exactly what he’d planned on.

And when he’d ran out after John had left, ran to Baker Street with his feet pounding against the pavement alongside his heart, the ache did not cease. It only soothed into a dull throb once he’d come inside, and touched a soft beige jumper John had left on the couch.

Sherlock stood in the middle of 221B, filing the information away permanently as he relived it. He walked to the coffee table carefully, treading lightly like he was already just inside a memory, like none of this was real. Like it would break as easily as he would.

He picked up a pen John had accidentally brought home from the clinic and hurriedly scribbled down words he knew could hold none of the weight he felt pressing down into his chest, making it hard to breathe. His scrawl was even more unintelligible than usual, and he felt tears welling up as he remembered the last time John got frustrated with him for it, but then forgave him because at least he was _attempting_ to write a grocery list. When he began to write, his heart slowly cracked, crumbled, and fell onto the letter that he left on the table for John.

- _I have an appointment to get to. You won’t like it. I just needed to say goodbye._

Sherlock almost scratched it out. Of course he’d know by the time he found this. He’d know and he’d hate Sherlock for it. He would shout at the empty room and Sherlock would be gone, unable to defend his actions or beg for forgiveness. Sherlock felt the weight double, and gasped for his next breath.

- _This is the first time I’ve said goodbye, do you know that? I am always the one left behind._

His mind flashed to Mycroft leaving for school, leaving the house and him in it. His dog leaving him standing over a freshly dug grave, with nothing but regret and a determination not to care anymore. His mum leaving him lying on his bed in a flat the size of his thumbnail, pupils blown wide after she’d found him doing cocaine. He never even got the opportunity to say goodbye to any of them. But now that he had the chance and knew what it was like, he wondered if it hadn’t just been the universe granting him a small favour.

- _And since I know how it feels, I am sorry._

He did know, but he also knew how it felt to move on, to let people in again. It had only happened once, for him, but looking down at the pen and feeling an overwhelming urge to take it with him simply for the fact that John had touched it, Sherlock thought once was enough. He tried to imagine how John would move on. How he would eventually smile again, then laugh, without Sherlock there to absorb the sound. Maybe with a nice girl from the surgery. Maybe in the middle of the park that he met Mike in, because he saw the bench and remembered Sherlock for just one second. Maybe at the funeral where he’d laugh because he didn’t want to cry. Sherlock wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know a lot of things about John now, and he had to be okay with that. Because John deserved better, and Sherlock wasn’t it.

_-But I could write it a million times and still not express all of my regret, so I’ll stop now._

That much was true. He would never lie to John. But even still, he could not continue on like this or he’d never say what he meant to. Sherlock forced the remorse down like the bile in his throat, and shook his head until only black and white remained.

_-But I do love you_

He never got to say that enough.

_-I do care about you more than is probably wise._

More than he’d planned to.

_-A first love, a first everything, a first John._

That wasn’t enough, but he looked at the clock, and saw that it was almost time for him to make his appearance at St. Bart’s.

_-There are many things I would do, given the chance._

Like tell him he loved him one more time. Kiss him again. Make him laugh, wheezing out an involuntary scoff like he would when John was angry with him. Maybe just hold him, and ask him not to say one word.

_-I would tell you to move on, but I know you won’t, and I don’t want you to, really._

God help him, he didn’t.

- _very sincerely yours_

Only his.

_Sherlock Holmes_


	11. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it this far.

_29 January, 2011 6:00_

John woke up from another nightmare with tears on his face and his breath catching in his throat. He ignored the feeling of wrong, danger, panic, because he knew he was in his room, in his flat, in London, which wasn’t safe, exactly, but wasn’t a warzone, so he had to be satisfied with that. Had to be happy with a flat that smelled musty and like the elderly and a little bit of mould; a flat that was smaller than he’d been used to before, but larger than his quarters in Afghanistan.

Yes, it would do, but the entire thing screamed ‘temporary,’ and John would be more than a little surprised if he found out the landlord offered anything longer than three month leases.

He had to get out of here. John felt the restless energy build up inside of him, but rebelled against it purely for the sake of it. He forced himself to calmly walk to kitchen that would have made his mum gag, and got out coffee.

He hummed _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ while he made his drink, even though Christmas was over a month ago, and went to the mini fridge to get an apple out. It was bruised. When his pathetic attempt at breakfast was ready, he thumped his way over to his Spartan desk, hating the way his cane echoed through the floor, the sound bouncing back up to slap him in the face.

John slumped down and rubbed his face. Today. Today he would write on that stupid blog Ella was always going on about.

He pulled his laptop out, his fingers lingering only barely when they brushed the barrel of his Browning. No. It hadn’t gotten to that point yet. He didn’t think Harry would ever forgive him.

Not that he’d yet to forgive her.

He flipped his laptop open, and sent an open eyed glare to the blank screen even while it taunted him.

John was getting nowhere. This type of thing was for people who led exciting lives. But nothing happened to him.

He scrolled past his previous posts, cheeky one-liners he’d hoped would reassure Ella into thinking he’d at least gotten his sense of humour back. It was hopeless.

He clicked the lid of the computer shut crisply, and slid his chair back.

He looked at the clock. Almost half seven. He could head toward Ella’s and be early. Nothing better to do.

* * *

_8:09_

The therapy was awful. As usual.

Ella spouted off things about how his life was just leading up to something, and John counted how many times she used ‘potential’ in one conversation.

He left earlier than even his premature arrival would’ve allowed, and on the way out, his leg wouldn’t hold his weight long enough for him to slap the cane down, and he stumbled.

* * *

_8:54_

The park was cold, he was limping, and he needed caffeine. Another night interrupted sporadically by phantom gunshots and screams of people he couldn’t save. He wanted to be left alone, forever, and he briefly entertained the idea of climbing into a cab and giving the driver all of his money to take him somewhere, anywhere.

Not that his money would get him very far. The end of the street, maybe.

John sighed and kept walking, passing a couple snogging shamelessly on a bench, and watched a cyclist pass him with seemingly no effort. He didn’t even know where he was going. He just knew he didn’t want to go home, or what escaped as an excuse for one at the moment.

He’d gotten out of his appointment, and hadn’t headed home, just walked and walked and walked until his feet carried him to the park where he’d first had to pick Harry up when she’d been completely plastered.

Good memories, really, when he thought about how she was now.

John spotted a coffee stand ahead of him, directly next to the path, and silently blessed the man who’d just took what looked like the last pot out of the coffee maker. It was bound to be warm, and John’s fingers itched to wrap themselves around a cup, even one of those shit Styrofoam ones that most of the stands favoured.

He approached the man, scanning the menu propped up from the ground, and figured he would probably afford a simple cup, maybe even a medium. He ordered, with one cream and decided on two sugars because he wasn’t going to eat until dinner and the doctor part of him insisted he watch out for low blood sugar.

“Thanks,” he murmured to the man as he exchanged out the money for the steaming cup.

“Welcome,” he replied, winking at John, which almost made him jump. John grinned back at him, because he was attractive as hell, but then backed away without inciting further conversation, because he was probably not in the mood for a fucked up army doctor with a questionable sense of humour.

He continued on the path, sipping his drink. He would just finish one more route through the walkway, and then walk straight to his flat. To do nothing.

When he finished his coffee, he threw it in one of the omnipresent rubbish bins that lined the path, and just kept going, letting the familiar routine of simply walking lull him into a stupor while he thought.

John was debating whether to have a microwaved dinner or a microwaved dinner when he caught the eye of a rather large man with glasses that tugged at the back of his head at some memory. He ignored it and nodded to the man, hoping he wouldn’t try to talk to him.

“John? John Watson?”

“Stamford. Mike Stamford,” the man explained gesturing to himself.

Oh, of course. Mike. Same glasses, different build. But still Mike.

“Yes, no. Yes, sorry-” John stumbled over his words, not used to talking to anyone besides a woman who was trying to pry him open and somehow fix him. He extended his hand, and tried to smile.

* * *

Conversation with Mike was easy, everything his conversations weren’t these days, and he marinated in it. But when Mike mentioned living arrangements, part of John grimaced.

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” he scoffed. Mike laughed and he stiffened.

“What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today,” Mike grinned.

“And who was first?”

* * *

_10:12_

When John walked into the lab, his eyes snagged on the new equipment as his nose welcomed the familiar scent of science and procedure, overlain by the smell of sharper chemicals, a clean sort of soap, and something that reminded John of his cousin’s cello practises.

He offered his phone to a man who looked like a fantasy and talked like a wanker. He raised his eyebrows when the man was extraordinarily rude to a woman who acted more like a girl and left her with a disappointed look on her face. He was strung up and laid out for full viewing by the man’s deductions.

John Watson was frustrated and confused.

But when he walked out of Bart’s, he was grinning.


End file.
